WMD: Weapons of Mass Draconic Destruction
by Digolgrin
Summary: When an incident in combat strains international relations, three dragons stumble into the modern world. Now out of their comfort zone, they must now stop a war before it ever starts, in Digolgrin's first project set on Mother Earth!
1. Setting the Scene

_**July 4th, 2012 AD**_

_**1752 hours, China time**_

_***AUTOTRANSLATION ONLINE***_

_"As our closest trading partner, the United States of America, celebrates its 236h birthday, our economy continues to grow. The Americans have invested trillions of dollars in our great country, and it is now the primary source for our many exports..."_ "Yes, yes, we've heard all this before," General Xiahou Bei sighed as he studied Sun Tzu's Art of War for what seemed like the thousandth time. The Premier had ordered the entire Chinese military to step up its training, but for what remained a mystery. In all his years of service to the People's Army, he never once had to go to battle, so the order puzzled him. _Why is this so?_, he wondered. _The Russians have been relatively quiet, the Americans are focused on other battles, and either way we do not have the sufficent military power to defeat either of them in a full-scale war. What has transpired to bring us to preparation for battle?_ The answer came as if it were on cue. "_In military news, two fighter aircraft of unknown origin were intercepted by our glorious Air Force last night. The formation appeared on radar southwest of Beijing, attracting four brave men from the great 157th Fighter Squadron. The aircraft were forced to leave, but not without the loss of one of our own fighters. Zhou Huang has the story..."_

While the identity of the aggressors remained unknown, and, quite frankly, would have been hidden by the government to prevent it from concerning the general populace, it obviously still concerned Beijing; hence the buildup. The General flipped the page, concern of his own written on his face. He had a family to take care of, which, to him, was far more important than studying the Art of War for hours on end. He hoped the whole thing would blow over, like so many other incidents, but he knew in his heart that orders were orders. Just as he settled into a mode of meticulous study, however, there was a knock at his door. He growled in irritation, and angrily yelled "_**What is it?**_ I'm busy!" at the intruder. "General Bei, come quickly! You're needed at the strategic planning room, **ASAP**!" Hurriedly, the General closed his book and ran as fast as his fifty-year old legs could carry him to his destination.

__"General, how honorable of you to join us. We have important news; fresh from Beijing," his adjutant reported. The room was filled with plenty of other officers of the same rank. "Well, good; I hope it was worth the trip. You know how old these bones are," General Bei said, his stamina drain apparent in his voice. "Then you **_won't_** be disappointed." The adjutant smirked, as he displayed photos from the dogfight the night before. "These are the highest quality images we could obtain of our adversary in last night's air battle," he began. "This one was taken from the fighter we lost." The unmistakable outline of a McDonnel Douglas F/A-18E Super Hornet took fullscreen on the tactical display behind the adjutant. _That's...!_ "Whatever you're thinking, you are correct. This fighter belongs to the Americans." The General remained silent, dumbfounded at this turn of events. "Has the Premier contacted President Obama regarding this attack?" an officer inquired. "He's acknowledged that a carrier group had launched a patrol near our airspace, but he firmly denies that patrol launching any kind of missile at our fighters. The Premier didn't buy it." "No wonder the Americans want him out of office; his charisma is not up to snuff," another officer joked.

"...What is Beijing's course of action on this issue?" General Bei spoke up. "Course of action? General, you really need to brush up on your Art of War. Under the principle of _guan shi_, an attack on one of our men is an attack on _all_ of us. _**We will retaliate.**_" Each word rolled off the adjutant's tongue individually, like a certain Spartan King. "_What?_ Hopefully not with nuclear weapons!" yet another officer objected. "No, _of course not_, you _dishonorable dog!_ We will let the Americans have their fun, but we _**will**_ show our true feelings on this matter when the time is right. For now, we train... we plan... _we_ _prepare._ **DISMISSED!"**

As he and his fellow officers slowly filed out of the room, General Bei's face had shock written all over it. "_War._ We're going to _war_ with the United States," was all he could say when he returned to his room... and fell asleep.

Cut to a map of modern Earth, China highlighted in red, the United States in blue. The following words materialize on the screen in short order as the camera makes close up passes at this digital map, stock footage of both armies periodically showing up on the screen.

**Digolgrin Enterprises Presents**

**A Digolgrin Fanfiction**

**Inspired by the fanfic "The Legend of Spyro: Operation DarkStar" by _TMBH77_**

**WMD: Weapons of Mass (Draconic) Destruction**

A/N: Welcome to the brave new world of **WMD: Weapons of Mass (Draconic) Destruction**! I know I said on dA that I was gonna lease this idea out to whoever PMed or Noted me saying they were interested in the premise, but my Internet was non-functional, so I couldn't quite work on Of Locusts and Legends Part 2 or even Bonus Chapter 1 Part 2 just yet. (If you don't know, I use BigHugeLabs' Writer tool to do most of my writing; I find OpenOffice to be a good editing tool for that program, seeing as I can mark stuff in Writer with asterisks or all caps so I know what I want to put in italics or bold letters.) This was all written in OpenOffice, and, save for a blunder in which I forgot to save before going somewhere and my computer was shut down before I returned, it actually worked out quite well for something finished in almost one night. I could have made this a Mercenaries fanfic if I wanted to, seeing as I'm exceptionally fond of those games and am anxiously awaiting the eventual announcement of the third game (even though I know Pandemic's been shut down), but _TMBH77_'s "**The Legend of Spyro: Operation DarkStar**" (and my botched interpretation of said fic's story, viewable in Bonus Chapter 1 Part 1 in my other fic "**For Whatever Remains****"**) made me think otherwise. If you're reading this, I could definitely use you as my airborne consultant; basically, you'd be a Beta Reader who checks for blunders in depictions of aircraft. Anyone else who wants to volunteer to be my military consultants should PM me ASAP; I could use _your_ experience to help _me_ write depictions of human operations as accurately as humanly possible.

Before I save this for the final time before upload, I want to say that I _**DO NOT**_ own the "Spyro the Dragon" franchise or its characters, though I wish I did. Any resemblance to any event or person, living or dead, is entirely a coincidence (Save for the leaders of both countries; I plan to use their names whenever possible, as they _are_ real names) and should not be taken seriously. The countries "Auroran Republic" and "Troll Empire", however, _are _my own creation. While they aren't copyrighted, I just want to mention them up front.


	2. Crossing Over

"_Know thy enemy and know thyself, find naught to fear in a hundred battles."- Sun Tzu, Art of War_

**Chapter 2**

**Crossing Over**

_**May 7th, 3369 AY**_

_**1048 hours Warfang time**_

Throughout the deserts of the Warfang region, Warfang itself being one of the legendary fortresses of the Auroran Republic, searches ran rampant for a military officer who had gone AWOL [1]. Major Strigon, a leopard staff officer that had just arrived from the capital of Acropolis in order to strengthen the already battle-hardened troops manning the fortress, had reportedly disappeared from his rented flat two days before. With signs of a struggle present, the chances of him possibly still being within the fortress walls hit rock bottom, and the search quickly intensified before it ever started; the Auroran body can only go five days without water, so if Strigon wasn't found within that time, his chances of being found alive would gradually degrade to the point where his superiors would have to write that letter home explaining what happened regardless if they haven't found a body yet or not.

Out of all the search efforts, none are as well funded as the Auroran military's. Today, it's Squad C of the Wolfhound Platoon, Company A, 122nd Battalion, 1st Warfang Regiment, 82nd Division's shift. Let's get down to brass tacks and find that squad! Assuming narrator duties.

*zip!*

"_Verak!_ Where _the hell_ could the Major be?" the Purple Dragon angrily growled.

"Calm down, _ Purple One,_ we've still got three more search sites to go, then we're gonna call it a day," his superior, Sergeant Galm, a golden retriever Auroran, reassured his squad. "Dragons, take to the air and head to Site B; we're done here."

"Yes, sir!" The Dragons on the plateau above were heard backing up following their acknowledgement to gain sufficient distance to take off without any penalties... Then, they shot down the length of the plateau at high speed, and extended their wings as their front legs dropped off the cliff. Following a few well timed flaps of their wings, they were airborne and already en route to the next site. Seems like a flawless system... Right?

Well, a certain red Dragon slipped on his takeoff run, and fell tail first into the ground. (Un)fortunately, it broke the instant his rear end made contact, and wound up right below Site A.

"Hey, Flame; You alright down there?" Cynder, a black Dragon, and mate of the Purple Dragon, Spyro, asked, having to make a quick landing to assess the situation.

"Yeah- I think I broke something, but I'll be fine... " Flame quickly caught his breath as his eye caught something that he didn't recognize as "normal". Following a silent "whoa", he turned his attention to the aboveground as the Purple Dragon himself came to help him out of the hole he had plummeted into.

"Hey, Spyro? I think I found something down here," Flame explained.

"Is Strigon down there with you?" he answered inquisitively.

"No, no, he's not down here, but that's not the point. There's something _else _down here!"

"Oh, alright. All I ask is that it doesn't waste my time," Spyro accepted, jumping down in order to take a look. Cynder followed a split second later, tailed by Flame's partner, Private First Class Vertas, a gray wolf. If you don't know, Flame's not an actual warrior; he's only a medic, therefore he's never killed a Troll—the species neighboring the Republic on its western border—in his entire life. Vertas is the other medic in his squad, and he's fine with his position; he's killed his share of Trolls, though.

What they found waiting for them was breathtaking in its own right; there was an arch in the middle of this cavern. At the very top was inscribed a series of strange symbols, neither Draconic nor Runic. The great historians, thousands of years later, still argue as to its origin. As such, it remains a mystery as to how or why it came to be. Save for one aspect; that'll be touched upon later.

"_Aurora s'hig kiam'po!" _Vertas swore. That's Runic for "Aurora be damned." Now, Runic used to be the primary spoken language of the Auroran Republic until the Dragons were discovered. Upon discovering that the "draconi", as the Dragons were referred to early on, spoke a different language, the Aurorans began learning it under the Guardians of that time in order to converse with them. Eventually, Runic was relegated to being a second language you could learn in a modern/foreign language class; as the years flew by and Purple Dragons came and went, the Aurorans realized that their way of life, culture and even their military revolved around these reptilians, and Draconic, the Runic name for the Dragon language, became commonplace.

After more than a couple minutes of gazing at this wonder of nature, Spyro called down all of Squad C. As soon as all eyes took in the strange sight, Sergeant Galm began to sketch it in amazement, while Private Hydrak and Corporal Vizef, fox and panther, respectively, the squad's resident archaeologists and Runic experts, swarmed over every detail of this arch, trying to explain how it got there. It didn't take long for one of them to notice the Dials on the right hand side of the Arch, when viewed after falling in through the hole.

"And this... I betcha a hundred blue gems this has no purpose, Viz." He spun them around like a combination lock, quickly determining these indeed had no purpose. That was, until Spyro stepped in.

"Cut it out, both of you! This thing could have been booby-trapped by whoever left it here, and your Sergeant wouldn't want you winding up being the subject of another grueling search!" Spyro began giving a level-headed speech to the two soldiers about the unknowns of the Arch. Flame didn't care for semantics, so he clumsily slunk past him and began his own investigation into the Dials.

While attempting to keep his own presence hidden, he realized he could pull and push each of the three Dials in and out of place. Each time he did so, the symbols on each Dial began to glow, but this small detail flew right over his head. It took two minutes for him to notice it, but by then, he had locked in two of the three Dials, and was just about to do the same to the third. That was when the Arch came alive.

"And finally..." Spyro was interrupted by the ground suddenly starting to shake. Galm was alarmed, and quickly ordered his squad into attack formation, as the Dragons, Flame not included, dropped into their battle stance, ready to take on whatever was headed their way. Fortunately, nothing was in the area to attack them; the seismic waves were actually being generated by the Arch itself. A white beam of light, also generated by the Arch from a hole at the bottom of its apex, began to expand and fill its entire lower half. Once this had happened, the light went from transparent to opaque; and the Arch fell silent once more. The Purple Dragon looked around, head on a swivel as he attempted to figure out who had provoked this strange event. Immediately, he turned to the squad archaeologists, and began chewing them out.

_** "Did you do something to that Arch?" **_Spyro angrily inquired.

"No, we didn't, Sir; all _I_ did was..."

"Mess around with those Dials, I know." he finished. It took a little over seven seconds to identify what the Arch really was; a portal of sorts. You couldn't see what was on the other side, but it was still a portal.

"Whatever's coming through, I want _**STOPPED. **__**YOU HEAR ME**__**?" **_Sergeant Galm brazenly and harshly ordered. One minute passed, with no strange abominations of nature pouring through the light and into their world within that time. That's right. Not even a speck of dust. Needless to say, this was rather strange, and in clear defiance of the laws of accidental portal opening.

Flame quickly owned up to opening the now-renamed Gate. "I'm sorry! I didn't know they'd do... _THAT!" _

"We _all_ didn't know, Flame. I forgive you, but..." He stopped himself, realizing Cynder hadn't said anything ever since she stepped into the Gate Chamber. "You got anything to say, Cynd? You haven't said anything in quite a while."

"Sorry, it's just that... This thing literally rendered me speechless, up until... y'know... _that _happened."

"Well, then, speak up. It might not be as speechlessly beautiful if it starts spawning creatures we don't know how to fight," he explained.

Cynder nodded and replied, "I will."

Turning back to Flame, he finished his sentence with "But I don't think a Corporal such as yourself should be messing with stuff we should be careful around." "I understand." Flame stood back, signifying his end of participation in this conversation.

"So... What do we do now?" Vertas inquired, still staring at the Gate.

"We go through, I guess," Galm calmly replied.

"Question," Cynder began. "We can't just bring the whole squad through the Gate like this. It'd look like an invasion, if there's anyone there. How are we going to let them know we mean no harm?"

Spyro and the Sergeant both answered this question at the same time with "We'll just send a small delegation through." Both looked at each other in astonishment before reaching the same mental conclusion that great minds think alike. "The problem is who'll be part of it." Flame stepped forward.

"Count me in. I set this whole thing off, so I at least deserve to see what's past that Gate."

Spyro was next to volunteer. "As much as I'd like to let him go alone, the Corporal needs some supervision. I'm going with him."

Cynder leapt forward and stood next to Spyro. "I'm _not_ letting you out of my sight, Spyro! You go, I come with you, plain and simple!" The other four warrior Dragons quickly began volunteering to go with them, but Galm stopped the clamor.

"I understand that you all want to go through with them, but we need an Auroran to step up here, give us furries some representation."

Suddenly, Vertas was grabbed by the shoulders and thrown into the group of volunteers by the two squad archaeologists; he didn't oppose the action, seeing as Flame was his partner, but Galm sure did.

"Now, why did you boys go and do _that_?" the retriever complained.

For the first time since jumping into the Chamber, Vizef spoke up. "I just didn't... I mean, _we_ didn't want to take the blame for causing Flame's interaction with those Dials, Sarge. Besides, what if they bring back diseases we don't even know about?" Galm thought long and hard about this, and would continue to think about it for the rest of the day, but he still let his planned successor have it his way.

"Alright. Vertas, you're going with the Dragons. That okay with you, Private?"

Vertas nodded. "Yes sir. I'll try not to let you down." Galm nodded and ordered his men at least a couple yards back as the volunteers began to step through the Gate. The last thing the Dragons, and the wolf, heard from him before going through was "Good luck and Auroraspeed."

_**September 22md, 2012 AD**_

_**Washington D.C**_

_**1927 hours D.C time**_

It was a meaningful yet boring existence, being a scientist at DARPA's Washington branch. Although you were working on countermeasures for one of the mightiest armies on Earth, you often find yourself tuning and retuning whatever you were working on just to make it perform like the specifications say they should. Having a squad of Marines always on standby in case some terrorist breaks in doesn't always help ease your fears. However, today is the day DARPA's EMP missile defense system will be tested in a low power environment, so as not to brick [2] the electronics running throughout the building, so the Marine defense is actually justified; it's to make sure no saboteurs get to the device and cause it to expel enough power to do what the low power environment's trying to prevent from happening.

"Approaching 1930 hours—zero hour in two minutes. Charging Alpha and Beta ([3])." the loudspeaker proclaimed.

Electricity began to power through the EMP module hung on the ceiling, crackling with each level of charge reached. The idea of an EMP, or electromagnetic pulse, is to cripple a target's electronics, therefore rendering it blind. These are produced by nuclear explosions, so if a nuke airbursts in flight, it's pretty much game over for anything electric, including—but not limited to!- power grids, fly-by-wire aircraft, electric cars, et cetera, et cetera. EMP as a countemeasure, however, ensures that nuclear missiles will either not release their payload, or release it at the wrong time. DARPA plans to use it in this context instead of an offensive weapon.

The clock started ticking towards the crucial moment when the module will fire its EMP. Ten seconds passed. Then fifty more. And then forty more. Finally, the module was ready to fire. "Twenty seconds to EMP detonation. All personnel, please turn off all electronic devices." As the scientists continued to watch, the module quickly ramped up its output. As far as the author knows, this is normal behavior before an EMP lets loose.

"Five. Four. Three... Testing Alpha... _now._" The EMP module then let off a massive burst of electricity, which is _not _normal when testing an EMP in a low power environment, as far as the author knows. By the time the EMP halted its discharge, four strange creatures appeared, crackling with electricity and walking forward. One was a purple dragon, the second red, another black, and the fourth... was basically a gray wolf walking on two legs, wearing armor that could be easily described as belonging to that of a soldier in ancient times. The instant they stopped moving, the loose electricity stopped crackling. The control room quickly shut down the EMP module so they could get a better look.

The other scientists looked on in abstract amazement. Well, amazement that quickly turned into horror for some of them.

"HELP! GUARDS!" one of them yelled, running into a room he considered "safe." The next thing the creatures knew, a team of six Marines armed with Colt M16A4s burst into the room, taking positions that gave them control.

The strange tickling sensation of electricity bouncing off them brought the delegation of Spyro, Cynder, Flame and Vertas to a halt as they observed their new environment. The Gate now stood in a position only they could see; the creatures around them could, they felt, only see them and not the Gate. Just when Spyro was about to speak, though, one of the creatures called for help, running away as if afraid to face them. Six individuals with strange contraptions with holes in the front in their hands and wearing armor of some sort suddenly appeared in the room, taking up positions to their front.

"_**FREEZE! **_ Don't come any closer or we'll blow you all to kingdom come!" one of them yelled.

"Stop right where you are and put your hands behind your head!" another ordered. Vertas was shocked by their threats; he obviously didn't expect resistance.

"Well, _verak,"_ he whispered as the soldiers continued to array themselves in vital positions.

Footnotes

[1] AWOL: **A**bsent **W**ith**o**ut **L**eave

[2] Brick: An electronic device that has basically been rendered useless, either through a software bug or otherwise. The name stems from, if I remember correctly, the weight of some devices, like game consoles, boomboxes, even stereoes; if they were rendered useless, the owner would call them "useless as a brick", hence the word.

[3] Alpha and Beta: I believe these to be two separate halves of an EMP device, like the one depicted in _ Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Conviction._ (_Splinter Cell _and the _Tom Clancy_ namebrand are copyright of Ubisoft.)

A/N: I was actually debating naming this chapter "Know Thy Enemy" over "Crossing Over"-I plan to base the chapter titles off quotations I find that seem to fit the situation faced in the chapter (or at the beginning of it). I even have the next chapter's title all planned out—it's called "Forever Untold," but I'll need to either find (or invent) a quote that has those words within it. Fortunately, I can always not base a chapter title off a quote for once and use some materials I have with me at the time of writing. As always, read and review (And try to help me out with some of the inaccurate details I probably accidentally slipped in... I know the USMC (Semper Fi, fellas!) doesn't guard DARPA installations or testing laboratories, but they were there for both creative license and plot purposes.), and I'll be seeing you later!


	3. Forever Untold

"_...For it is not the untold secrets of the world that bother us, it is the secrets kept by man that we worry will go forever untold."-Anonymous _[1]

**Chapter 3**

**Forever Untold**

_**September 22nd, 2012 AD**_

_**Washington D.C**_

_**DARPA Test Lab**_

_**1932 hours D.C time**_

__The Marines' gear shifted as they adjusted their position to get clean shots at the creatures should they try anything stupid—like moving one more foot forward, for instance. The Colt M16A4 they use is a _very_ formidable rifle; firing the venerable (and NATO [2] standard) 5.56x45mm cartridge at an average fire rate of 750 rounds per minute if the weapon had a fully automatic fire mode, the M16 could carve up any unarmored target any day of the week. The Marines, therefore, flatout _knew _that these creatures _had_ no choice but to surrender; it was the only way to avoid a wall of lead.

It took little over twenty more seconds for the rifle to get a chance to prove its point. One of the creatures—the gray wolf walking on two legs—had turned to what appeared to be what were classified as European dragons, if the book "**Dragonology**" was correct, whispering something to them before turning around once more and beginning to step forward in defiance. Lance Corporal Tyler Larsen had his sights on the guy since the beginning, and was all too eager to pull the trigger on his _very _short, unfortunate existance on humanity'sGodforsaken Earth. He squeezed it with absolutely no hesitation.

*KRAKKA-KRAKKA-KRACK!*

As these strange creatures began to blockade their way out, he remembered that his delegation had come in peace, not to invade and take their world for themselves. It didn't take long for him to come up with a contingency plan, and he turned to the Dragons in order to warn them.

"Hey, hang on, guys," he whispered. "Be quiet, and _don't make any sudden moves._" Turning around, he carefully began to step forward, and was about to announce their intentions when...

*KRAKKA-KRAKKA-KRACK!*

He reeled back in pain; he didn't know it, but one of the creatures had attacked him with the strange contraption in his hand. "AGGH!" he screamed. The wolf clutched his abdomen as he fell, landing on his tail. However, he was surprisingly still alive; the Auroran body is slightly tougher than that of a human being, but, obviously, they don't know _what _a human being is at this point.

"Now, goddammit, we warned you... **HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD, OR THIS ****WILL ****END BADLY FOR YOU!**" one of the creatures commanded. Cynder and Flame stepped back in horror; clearly, the Son of Ignitus—that's Flame—had caused not only the Gate to open, but Vertas' wounds as well. They both knew disobediance would mean death at the hands of these strange creatures, but they also felt that the wolf hadn't been given a fair chance to explain, and would have run to help him if they weren't under the threat of death by weapons they inferred were some sort of invisible arrow launchers.

Spyro was almost always known to think quickly on his feet, however, and immediately put his right front paw up as if to say "Hold your horses, comrade! I wish to speak to you!" This, surprisingly, did not meet with any resistance from the heavily armed creatures.

"Would you jarheads [3] _please _be quiet for a couple minutes?" he shouted in order to grab their attention.

"WHOA! These guys know English?" another one of the creatures inquired, shock present in his voice.

"Yes, we do." He paused, wondering where they even learned Draconic. "Well, it's Draconic to us, English to you... Same bloody difference," he responded. "Anyway, we come from a world _**not like yours**_. The Dragons standing before you—that's including me-are one of our world's three known sentient species." The Purple One noticed he was speaking in terms that made him sound like a Guardian, even though he was only fifteen. "The wolf you've just attacked is one of another such species, known to our world as an Auroran."

"And a furry to most everyone else," yet another creature quipped. "In all honesty... Why is he even still alive?" The Dragons turned their heads to notice Vertas clutching his abdomen, leaning against the back wall, coughing periodically.

"I... don't know for certain. It'll take a while before we can find out why, but for now, introductions. I'm Spyro. The black and red dragons are Cynder and Flame, respectively." He gestured to each Dragon with his tail as he introduced them, pausing afterward to make sure they soaked it in. Thankfully, noone recognized the names. "Mister Punctured-Intestine over there," Flame spoke, gesturing to Vertas as he did so, "calls himself Vertas Fasran. If that didn't make any sense, we Dragons don't have any last names. His kind does, get used to it."

However, someone _did_ recognize Flame's voice, though not in the way you'd expect. "Hey, doesn't this Flame guy sound a little like the main character from _Uncharted 3_? Nathan Drac or something along those lines..."

"Maybe a little bit... I haven't played that yet, Larsen, but I know Nolan North's voice when I hear it."

Flame laughed. "Well, maybe we sound a _little _bit alike, but hey, at least I'm not ruining my dignity by speaking." He paused, again realizing that Cynder hadn't yet spoken a word. "Uh... You got anything to add, Cynder?"

Cynder put her left claw up as if to say "Hold up, lemme get these guys to drop their weapons." She swung her tailblade downward in a gesture commonly understood in the Republic as "lower (or drop) your weapons." The creatures didn't understand the gesture at first, but after a few seconds, they had stood back far enough for them to no longer threaten the Dragons with their weapons. Spyro and Flame then quickly moved to pick the wolf off the ground, bringing him to the front of the gathering. He thanked the Dragons before speaking for the first time since being attacked.

"I... can accept the remark you made about my race. There's a similar racial slur used to describe our race, and we are just that—furry." A snarl characteristic to that of wolves was present in his speech, and with every word he spoke. "As my partner Flame said, I am Private First Class Vertas Fasran of the Auroran Republic Army. As a warrior and medic to my squad, I can, along with the rest of us, clearly identify with violence and war. What I cannot understand, however, is why you would attack a member of a delegation of peace sent to this world to establish diplomatic relations from across time and space."

"I... I-I'm sorry, Private Fasran. We didn't know your true intentions at first... We just follow orders. Y'know, _semper fidelis_? Always faithful?" one of the aggressor creatures, probably the leader, confessed.

"I'm sorry, I think you mean Private Vertas. I dunno if you say soldiers' names differently here, but you must be mistaken!" Spyro attempted to correct the creatures' logic.

"We happen to call soldiers by their _surname,_ not their given name. For example, I'm Lance Corporal Larsen. Larsen's my surname, Tyler is my given name. You get it now?"

"Loud and clear, jarhead." Flame snarked underneath his breath. Suddenly, a thought hit him—if he was a Corporal, then shouldn't he outrank this creature? "For your information, Lance Corporal, I happen to be one rank higher than you. You're looking at Corporal Flame, Son of Ignit-" He stopped himself before he could get the full title out. He knew the creatures wouldn't get it, since they were clearly technologically superior and titles like "Son of Ignitus" would mean nothing if they didn't know who his late father even _was_. He decided to say nothing more on the topic of rank for the time being.

However, Larsen had already gotten the gist of what the red Dragon was trying to say. "Sorry, _sir,_ but your rank has no meaning, since you are from another country... As your friend put it... So while you do outrank me, you _cannot_ boss me around." Spyro also had something to add, but Flame was trying to get under his nerves, so telling him now would further demoralize his own friend.

Before long, the creatures had introduced themselves as the species _Homo sapiens_ [4], better known as humans, and that they were soldiers of the "United States Marine Corps", or "Marines" for short. The Dragons, and Auroran, knew not what the "United States" was, but LCpl Larsen (Or Tyler, depending on which species you sympathize with) had promised to explain in due time. However, one Marine, a Private Sigmund, actually had doubts as to whether or not the Dragons were actually dragons, with a lowercase d, and not just reptiles with the species name of Dragon. This part shall be summarized for conveinence.

Spyro quickly rubbed out all doubt that he was, indeed, a dragon by spewing a spout of flame into the air. Flame quickly followed, sporting a much more intense flame since he was a pure Fire Dragon. Spyro also demonstrated his control over ice and electricity by freezing Flame's fire solid for ice, and discharging a non-lethal burst of electricity ("A favorite of mine to dispense of insubordinates", he would remark) into the scientist who had snitched on them in the first place. He was unable to demonstrate Earth thanks to the building's concrete construction.

Cynder, on the other hand, was a tad on the freakish side, according to the Marines; Fear, rather than sending enemies running for their lives like in the games, generated an aura that frightened (and, in one case, caused a Marine to wet himself) the Marines to the point where their "few but proud" nature seemed to be called into question. Her poison was the cause of death of a rat that had scurried in for food, and her "shadow" ability, while it had lost some of its former effect in the span of two Auroran years, still sent some of the government officials that had just arrived in the room to ask for the results of the EMP test into a paranoid frenzy.

Needless to say, the Dragons were accepted as "otherworldly". This still left the question of Vertas, however. Larsen, still doubting his ability to stand on two legs like a human while looking like an Earthly gray wolf without having to put on any sort of fursuit [5], tried to unmask him—and all he got was a round-trip ticket to the floor courtesy of Vertas's right hand.

"He may be hurt, but he's still got it!" Flame joked as the Lance Corporal picked his face off the concrete floor.

The chief scientist then immediately pointed out that revealing these unearthly beings' presence to the general population would cause widespread panic. As he put it-"The legends about these dragons are not pretty. They were always the villains, and as such, if they were proven to be real, it would be Area 51 [6] all over again."

"Area 51?" every single one of the "Visitors" inquired.

The scientist immediately clammed his mouth on the subject. All he said in response was a single word: "Classified." He then focused his attention on Lance Corporal Larsen, telling him "I'm going to get the CIA on the phone, tell 'em we have visitors."

"Can you get them to contact the President as well? He's gotta know about this too, y'know," Tyler added. The scientist nodded as he hurried out of the room.

In little over half an hour, the Dragons, Marines, and wounded Auroran were assembled in the conference room of the lab's, called DARPA by the scientists and Marines, D.C headquarters. In front of them was a document, produced by the "CIA", for each person present to sign.

"This is the Official Secrets Act of 1989 AD. As much as I hate to say it, _**as far as I know,**_ the United States lacks any equivalent law that states that you Visitors are now, officially, a government secret. Therefore, we had to *ahem* "borrow" this document from our friends, the British Commonwealth," a government official, probably from the CIA, explained. To the delegation, the "British Commonwealth" was _another _unknown detail. This world was indeed different from their own! "We cannot let the general public know that you exist, or they will accuse us of hiding things like you from them." He moved his finger down the document until he reached Section 1 of the Act. "According to the Official Secrets Act of 1989, Section 1," he began, making a formal speech out of it as he read, "any person who is, or has been, a member of the security or intelligence services—that's anything like the CIA- can be charged with disclosing information relating to their line of work. This also applies to anyone who is notified that he or she is subject to the provisions of this section." Cynder quickly rose her right front claw as soon as the official asked for questions.

"Yes, black dragon?"

"Would this also apply to our homeworld as well?" she asked, not bothering to give her name.

"Unfortunately, yes. It doesn't say it explicitly, but if your country, whatever that is, has an equivalent law, then you yourself are subject to it." The Dragons paused for a moment to think; did the Citadel—the Republic's equivalent to the United States' Congress—ever pass a law similar to the Official Secrets Act? It didn't take long for the wounded Vertas to point something out after a fit of coughing.

"I remember reading one day that the Citadel passed a law forbidding spies to talk about their work in public. The Auroran Espionage Protection Act of 3357 AY, if I recall correctly." Flame and Cynder swore viciously in Runic (_Verak_, for the curious) under their collective breaths—they would now have to keep this world a secret from prying ears-while Spyro could only shrug his wings and say:

"Well, that settles it." The human government official went through some other papers before letting those gathered to sign the Official Secrets Act, which would, in Cynder and Flame's eyes, seal their maws on the subject of this brave new world for good; and their original mission was to open diplomatic relations with whatever or whoever was behind the Gate! However, they were left with little choice; if it meant making their mark, they'd have to sign that document.

Spyro was first to sign, his fine, almost perfectly distinguishable handwriting present on the dotted line before anyone else. He was followed by Cynder, then Flame, then Vertas (as shaky as his hands were after being shot) and finally the entire squad of Marines that had held them up. Their names would now be officially redacted from any document that had mentioned them, until a set date had passed. That date hadn't been decided yet, but it was definitely in the early-to-mid 2020s.

It wasn't long before the Dragons faced their first real crisis on this brave new world...

Footnotes

[1] By _"anonymous"_, I mean I made that quote up. I couldn't really find much of a quote to go with "Forever Untold."

[2] NATO: **N**orth **A**tlantic **T**reaty **O**rganization. The majority of the Western military during the Cold War was this tight-knit group of nations. If a work of fiction is trying to avert America Saves the Day, the primary "good guys" are usually played by an American military unit that's part of the NATO coalition, and the rest of the friendly roster is rounded out with international soldiers.

[3] "Jarhead": Affectionate nickname for a United States Marine. Stems from their regulation "high and tight" haircut. (Note: Spyro just took a wild guess based on their gear; do _**NOT**_ assume he knows all about us just because he's the Purple Dragon.)

[4] _Homo sapiens_: Latin species designation for a human being. Literally means "Sapient Man."

[5] Fursuit: An entire division of the furry fandom is devoted to these rather fuzzy costumes. They're usually constructed to _look_ like their "fursona".

[6] Area 51: Otherwise known as Groom Lake Air Force Base. The most famous of America's conspiracy theories revolves around this airbase—namely, it allegedly houses the corpses of dead intelligent alien life forms.

Author's Note: Okay, just so you guys know, FWR is _**NOT dead. **_Chapter 5 is still in the works (namely because of school and other things like that.). While I still took a while in writing this, I believe it may have been worth it. So read, review, and give me feedback on any research boo-boos.


	4. Covert Action

"_I am not a member of the CIA or any other intelligence agency."-James R. Bath, alleged CIA operative_

**Chapter 4**

**Covert Action**

_**September 22nd, 2012 AD**_

_**Langley, Virginia**_

_**CIA HQ**_

_**2253 hours, Eastern Time Zone**_

The CIA—Central Intelligence Agency, or "The Company" to its agents- is probably one of the more knowledgable groups of the so-called "21st Century." Following the advent of the "Internet", the CIA posted literally everything they could make public about all the countries in the world onto one website. You, the readers, would probably know it as the CIA World Factbook. If you do not-Google it, bub!

Vertas had already been sent to a hospital in D.C to treat his gunshot wounds, where he was, to the best of the Dragons' knowledge, placed in a completely separate ICU, or Intensive Care Unit, under the protection of the United States Marines—a different squad, mind you. All _these_ guys knew about the situation was that a "government asset" had been injured in a "car accident", and was being treated as such.

The Dragons, on the other hand, had been driven in an armored "truck", in the dead of night, to the CIA's headquarters, and then herded into a large room with a screen on the front wall. In an attempt to appeal to the Visitors with their extensive knowledge about the many nations of the Earth, upon hearing that the world they came from had only two such countries, they were presented with comprehensive files on most of the Earth's nations to read, along with some supplemental material about the Marines and their weapons, which Flame was poring over with Lance Corporal Tyler Larsen by his side explaining the different parts of the M16A4 rifle Vertas had been shot with. He was interested in the internal workings, but secretly wanted to use this knowledge in case the Marines "hold us up again."

Cynder, who was facing the screen, was complacent with reading about the United States, periodically jotting an interesting fact or two down on a piece of paper an official had been so kind as to give to her (she planned on copying these into her journal when they got back to their world—and the Republic, by extension). _Anything these males won't know, I'll know in secret, _she thought. _We might _be_ secrets ourselves, but that doesn't mean a girl can't keep some of her own locked up in her head!_

Unfortunately, Spyro wasn't too keen on letting thoughts run through either Dragon's head. While he _was _reading the material supplied in the back of the room, sometimes he'd ask a question or two to make sure the CIA did indeed know these countries backwards and forwards. This meant Flame would be asking a calm, level-headed question about, say, the "gas system" or Cynder would be writing down that there were, say, different species of humans ("races", the document called them, but the Aurorans were divided into species, not races.), just before Spyro interrupted their thoughts with something like this:

"Pfft! That was simple. What's the local name of Libya's former government?"

The official Spyro was questioning sighed in frustration. He'd never been able to get the local name right in one whole month, since it was so long (about six words, not including all the 'al''s and the 'ash''s, which brought it to a total of twelve.), but he had to impress this Visitor, so he took a _deep _breath before starting.

"That would be the "Al Jamahiriyah al Arabiyah al Libiyah ash Shabiyah al Ishtirakiyah al Uthma." the official _almost _recited. (A/N: Don't even _**THINK **_about asking for a pronounciation key or literal translation for that one!)

Spyro put his right front claw up to his chin as if he were thinking about something, but really, he was impressed. As hard as it was to understand the flawless Arabic (which, again, wasn't the first language of anyone in the room... if the Dragons even knew what it was), the CIA sure had studious agents. However, Cynder, Flame and Larsen had their criticisms of their continous back-and-forth dialogue.

"Could you two shut up for just a couple minutes? I'm trying to explain something here!" the Lance Corporal growled.

Cynder was next to voice her thoughts. "Spyro, I can barely hear my own thoughts with you arguing with that official! Just settle down for once and learn a little bit about this world, why don't you?"

Flame then finally spoke up. "Yeah, listen to Cynder! I mean, c'mon, not everyone gets to visit a new world, and also: She's your _freakin' mate!_" Suddenly, Flame sealed his mouth—did the CIA _**really **_need to know the Purple One was married to a black dragoness? Unfortunately, the damage had already been done; literally every eyeball, camera lens and head was turned towards the couple, who could only blush and chuckle nervously. Thankfully, noone made any wisecracks about this relationship, even though Lance Corporal Larsen was trying to suppress the urge to sing a certain song. Y'know, the one about the two dragons sitting in a tree, making out, and eventually marrying and having a baby.

The silence was just long enough for a human in another room to become audible. "Next thing you know, there's gonna be somebody planning some sinister plot in the middle of a nuclear plant, and only some kid in pajamas can stop him."

"Ah, that premise was used sixteen years ago! I mean, even Digolgrin could write a plot that's better than that shit, even if it does take him two or three weeks to do it." [1/2]

Finally, Spyro spoke up. "Okay, so Flame was right. I **am **married, but... Let's just say it wasn't the usual "propose to a girl you like, and in a few short weeks, you tie the knot with said girl in a pretty white set of ceremonial armor" type."

"Nice of you to clear that up." Larsen said, relief in his voice.

"Yeah, that's another story altogether," Cynder explained. "We were fighting this war against a rival species that wanted us out of the picture, and "the safe passage of the marriage of Spyro and Cynder" just happened to be part of the final peace treaty. In other words, it was almost arranged."

"_Almost?_" the official asked, surprised.

"Well, I told them to make a public statement that basically said they were going to try to take the taboo of an arranged marriage out of the end of the war, then I planned a few dates, adapting as they went about their business," Flame began. "Eventually, as soon as Cynder's back was turned, Spyro here would start talking about finally popping the question, and I was constantly telling him, 'Spyro, wait until the right cards are on the table, then we'll talk about that.'"

Spyro's head started swimming with memories of those long weeks as Flame explained the steps taken to get them hitched without any trouble with the Citadel. "Needless to say, the 'right cards' did come into play, and the next thing I know, I've bought an engagement anklet and sitting out on a cliff looking out to a nearby lake one night, improvising a speech before finally popping the question," Spyro finished.

"Yeesh. Good thing I don't have a girlfriend yet; that sounds like quite an ordeal!" Larsen exclaimed.

"Oh, it was, believe you me!" Cynder laughed.

Strangely, throughout this entire conversation, noone, not even the CIA official in the room, took notice of a dark-skinned man with fairly noticable ears and a buzzcut entering the room, followed by a woman with long black hair and white skin carrying a briefcase. The female began going through some files, while the man started setting up a briefing program to be displayed on the screen. Flame had some suspicions about the screen when he first walked in the room, and now they were about to be fulfilled. If Spyro were to look up and see this man at this moment, he'd notice an air of importance emanating from him, not like that of the Guardians, but fairly closer to that of the Chancellor.

After he had finished, the dark-skinned man cleared his throat to grab attention._ "Ahem!"_ The Visitors, they would swear later, practically jumped out of their seats before turning around to look at the man for the first time. "Before we begin, allow me to introduce myself. I am President Barack Obama, the 44th President of the United States of America."

Spyro was about to open his mouth to introduce himself, but was cut off by the President. "Don't worry, I know who you Visitors are. The CIA had hastily created and given me a file with your names and pictures from DARPA in it the very instant you stepped out the door, and I must say, you are an interesting bunch. Control over fire, electricity, ice... Screwin' with people's heads... Able to produce wind gusts on a whim... That just sounds like somethin' out of a horror film." He then turned to his assistant. "I take it one of them is in the hospital, Monica? 'Cause I just don't see a wolf-like character in here at all."

"Yes, Mr. President. That would be Private First Class Vertas Fasran, of the Auroran Republic Army. Cause of injury: accidental discharge from a M16A4 rifle fired by Lance Corporal Tyler Larsen. He's in stable condition right now," the assistant recited. Her voice was calm, collected... Almost like Cynder, to tell you the truth.

"Well, good thing he's alive, then. I've got a few questions I want to ask him," Obama said, before turning back to the Dragons. "Okay, let's get started. I know you people must be tired, but we've got a few things to go over before I let you go."

Spyro and Flame didn't remember falling asleep at all, but they had complained to the driver that this planet had relatively short days; When they left the Republic, it was practically 11:00 AM. Now, it was almost the same time AT NIGHT. Cynder didn't mind; she thought it probably had something to do with timezones or something like that, but the Gate had taken them across time and space; it hadn't the slightest clue what a timezone was. In reality, at the time of the Visitors' crossing over, the Western Hemisphere, more specifically the Eastern timezone, was just closing in on 8:30 PM. As such, jet lag was going to be a pain in the tail for any Dragons or Aurorans who came to visit the initial delegation.

A black and white image of the HUD of a F/A-18E Super Hornet flashed up onto the screen after the briefing program—Blackhammer V2.5, it was codenamed—booted up and a file was selected from the Open menu. "This is guncamera [1] footage from one of our F-18E fighter jets on the night of July 3rd, 2012 Anno Domini, or AD for short, about two months ago. [2] At approximately 1834 hours, a team of two such fighters, flying off the USS Enterprise, or CVN-65 [3], encountered a squadron of four J-11 fighters, belonging to the People's Republic of China," the President began. The screen then flashed over to a map of Earth, with the United States highlighted in blue. "That's us in the blue, by the way. China," he continued, as the PRC flashed up in red, "is over here to our west. All times from this point on until the end of the briefing will be in eastern China's timezone."

"Now, China is a communist country; compared to the United States, the government controls most economic decisions, but it's got a free market system thrown into it, like us and, quite possibly, your Republic." the President explained. Spyro raised his left front claw. "Yes... Spyro, isn't it?"

"That would be me. The Auroran Republic isn't "communist", though, and based on what that official's told us..."

"You mean Agent Bradford." Obama corrected the Purple Dragon.

"Yeah, Bradford. Anyway, based on what he told us, you're not communist, either." Spyro pointed out.

"That's true. It could be said that the United States of America was the first example of a democratic nation in the modern world," the President proclaimed. The screen then flashed back to the guncamera. "If I may continue, the Chinese pilots didn't quite want us in their territory, even though the patrol route of our fighters did not come even close to China's territorial waters. Now, I'm gonna play this tape, give you a better idea of just what went down that night." he finished, pressing a button on the small device in his hand, which set the image on the screen into motion. Needless to say, this shocked the Dragons; _Moving pictures? Impossible!_ was the first thing through Spyro and Cynder's minds, in fact.

Audio began to play at the same time too. The first thing the Dragons heard was the slight crackling noise of a radio, and the sounds of someone breathing. This quickly gave way to speech.

"Uh, Talon? I think I've got four aircraft on radar... Flying in a diamond formation, it looks like. They're headed straight for us," a voice said.

"Shit. Two, be on guard. Those could be Chinese fighters; don't want you getting blown up if they try anything. Hawkeye 2-1, this is Hornet 3-1, be advised, we have four contacts on radar, bearing 165. They're headed right for us, over."

"Copy, Hornet 3-1. Be advised, you are not to engage unless they lock you up. We cannot see these contacts at this time, so we can't identify them. Over."

"Roger, Hawkeye, thanks for the heads-up. Out." Small talk between the "pilots" then ensued for about three more minutes until another, accented voice came over the radio.

"Attention unidentified aircraft, this is Red Hawk 2-1 of the glorious People's Liberation Army Air Force! You do not belong here, turn back now or we will be forced to conduct lethal action against you! Over!"

Talon, the lead pilot of the American formation, according to the President, then assumed the Chinese were out of their territory, and responded accordingly: "This is Hornet 3-1 of the United States Navy, flying off the USS Enterprise. Red Hawk, if my assumption is correct, you are in international waters, which, in itself, is aggression. You're the ones who should be turning back."

The Chinese held their ground, sparking a fierce argument between the two squadrons. Words were exchanged that, really, cannot be written without changing the rating of this fic to M. Eventually, one American pilot—Talon-manuevered behind a Chinese fighter, locking him up with an AIM-9X Sidewinder infrared guided air-to-air missile, intending to threaten its usage if they did not head back to Beijing. About one minute passed before his wingman spotted another Chinese fighter manuevering behind _Talon._ He assumed the movement to be hostile, needless to say.

"Dammit! Hornet 3-1, fox two! [4] I've been engaged, over!" The Sidewinder flew off the wingtip as the camera seemed to turn sideways and up; Talon began launching flares to divert any possible Chinese PL-5 heatseekers heading for his tailpipe. The Sidewinder, on the other hand, caught the pilot it was launched at—Red Hawk 2-2- completely off guard; the intent of the other pilot's manuever was to reciprocate the aggressor's movement. He died on missile impact when his fighter's engines exploded.

This prompted a short air battle, chronicled on the guncam in such first-person detail. Two more Sidewinders were launched, but only one hit was scored—no kill. The Chinese quickly used their strength in numbers to force the Americans into a no-win situation, and forced them to return to the Enterprise.

"Okay, that's all well and good, Mr. President, but what does _that _have to do with why we're here?" Flame inquired, scratching his head.

"The details of this engagement were hushed up by both sides in order to both avoid concerning the general populace and to avert the risk of war breaking out. However, we've received some... disconcerting information from CIA agents in China," Obama replied.

"Uh oh. I don't like where _this_ is going..." Cynder whispered, concerned about what was going to happen next.

"We have reason to believe that China is planning some sort of retaliatory strike for that pilot Talon killed. This is in accordance with the principle of _guanxi, _which means that if you hurt one of them, you hurt _all_ of them," the assistant explained. "This also means that if one of them becomes your enemy, they _all_ do."

"Oh great. You're saying that, even though you only killed one person, they're gonna retaliate against you for the death of _that one pilot?_" Spyro exclaimed, shocked.

"Unfortunately, yes. However, we have to be absolutely sure they're planning such an attack before we make preparations for our defense. We've got good men over in China, but we're not wasting their lives on this, for one reason and one reason alone: You."

"Then that means- Aw, _verak_," Flame cursed.

"The only reason I'm using you Dragons for this is because you're already national secrets. Noone knows about you yet except for Larsen's Marines, myself, and a few other choice people. There's no way in hell I can afford to pass up an opportunity like this. I might lose my reelection campaign this year, but at least I can go out with a bang by being the President at the time China attacked us and failed."

"Get back to the briefing, Mr. President. We don't want you going off on an off-topic spiel," Cynder commanded.

"Alright, Cynder." Obama answered. He cleared his throat again before continuing onward, as the image onscreen changed to the map screen, zoomed in on south-eastern China. "Your primary objective is to determine whether or not the Chinese military has the force necessary for an attack on United States soil—and stop them if they do. Secondary objective is to gather as much intelligence as possible regarding the engagement two months ago. That's really all there is to it."

"Wait, hold on..." Cynder had raised her right front claw as if to say "Hold up." "You want to send _us, _the Dragons of Warfang, into a country roughly on the same technological level as you..."

"...Across__the_** freakin' ocean...**_" Flame continued.

"...To make sure they aren't trying anything sneaky?" Spyro finished.

"That's the idea." The Dragons audibly groaned and/or cursed in Runic, but still paid attention.

"I apologize for the inconveinience I may have caused you, Dragons," the President proclaimed. Various forms of "Apology accepted" were received from the Visitors. The map on the screen then flashed back over to the United States, zooming in on a state called "North Carolina." "However, in 48 hours, you will be deployed to Fort Bragg in North Carolina, roughly six hours from Washington D.C. This is where the 82nd Airborne division is garrisoned, so for at least one or two weeks, you will be a part of this division. You'll learn a few things that'll be invaluable to this mission there."

"Hey, I was part of the 82nd division where we came from," Flame pointed out. The 82nd, better known as "Aurora's Vanguard", had always been the forefront of national defense back in the Auroran Republic. Having been headquartered in Warfang by the end of the Second Troll War, it would be able to respond to any border emergency or Trollish invasion within one or two days.

"Well, they're probably not like your old 82nd, Flame. You'll find out why they're called an "Airborne" division soon enough... Corporal." the president replied. Flame chuckled for a little bit before returning to his straight face. "Until then, you've got exactly 48 hours left in D.C before you ship out. I recommend you spend those to the best of your ability, 'cause you won't be getting all that much free time once you hit the grounds of Fort Bragg. Dismissed!"

The Dragons, and Larsen, filed out of the room. As Spyro and Flame looked back at the clock that was now displayed on the screen counting down from 48 hours, they knew that whatever was lying in store for them in China, it wasn't pretty. For once, they had an interesting challenge, one that would likely test their very ability to survive outside of their comfort zone. On the ride back to D.C, the Dragons fell asleep, Cynder curled up all nice and cute-looking in front of the rear doors, Spyro where he sat, and Flame sprawled out on the floor.

Believe you me, they were going to need all the sleep they could get...

Footnotes

[½] The preceding exchange was a reference to the premise of the old children's video game "Pajama Sam: No Need to Hide When It's Dark Outside", developed by Humongous Entertainment in 1996. This is trademarked to Humongous Entertainment. I also plugged myself in that exchange, clever me.

[1] Guncamera: A camera mounted on a fighter that basically serves as a flight recorder. Primary purpose is to measure tactical effectiveness. Can be in color, but most of the time it is in black and white. Plenty of future World War II air combat stock footage was made using this nifty device.

[2] First, note how Obama used F-18 instead of F/A-18. It's actually better to call a fighter with the F/A- designation, meaning multirole, an F-, meaning fighter, than to include the /A part of it. In fact, the F/A-22 Raptor eventually wound up being called the F-22 because of this, but it was eventually decided that the Raptor would primarily be used as an air superiority fighter anyway. The F/A-35 Lightning II will become America's multirole fighter of choice. Anno Domini literally means "In the Year of Our Lord."

[3] CVN-65: **C**arrier **V**ehicle(**N**uclear) **65**

[4] Fox: NATO brevity code for air-to-air missile launch. Stems from "foxtrot", which is NATO phonetic alphabet for "f", meaning fire. It was invented so as to warn friendly pilots that an air-to-air missile had been launched so they didn't get blown out of the sky by a stray missile. In fiction, all fighters, not just NATO, use the Fox system when launching a missile. Fox One represents a semi-active radar guided missile, Fox Two means an infrared-guided missile like the AIM-9X has been launched, Fox Three means an active radar guided missile like the AIM-120C has been launched, and the obelescent Fox Four means anything like gunfire. The current usage of "Fox Four"'s meaning is "Guns".

A/N: This one was brought out in little under one week, and, well, it just might be one of my mediocre chapters, a bit like "A Peaceful Morning" back in FWR. Any research screw-up detections may be reported in a review or comment, as per normal procedure, and I'll see you next time!


	5. Bonus Chapter 1: Updated Intro

Author's Note: _**First, an updated "intro" that feels a little more Bond-y than my previous endeavour in Chapter 1. Lyrics are played as if the text above them is the current event.**_

*BGM: "When Nobody Loves You" by Kerli. Song is copyright to its respective owner (s).*

Zoom out from US Navy roundel to nose of F/A-18E Super Hornet. Pan across fighter to an AIM-9X Sidewinder infrared-guided [1] air-to-air missile.

**Digolgrin Enterprises Presents**

Sustainer [2] ignites, with an accompanying *FWOOSH!* sound, camera follows, rotates right to enemy Sukhoi Su-35 Flanker (or what appears to be one) as missile flies to target. First part of first verse plays, followed by the signature **A Digolgrin Fanfiction**:

_Silence is golden_

_You will see, you will see..._

Impact! Cut to Flanker (or, rather, a Jiang J-11, a Chinese derivative of the Su-27) breaking apart following EPIC EXPLOSION, quick cut to two silhouetted Chinese soldiers, recognizable by the QBZ-95 rifles they wield, busting through a door and sprinting to their right.

_Your diamond seal is broken_

_You are free... You are free!_

Following the first "you are free", the two soldiers quickly get cut down by... what's this?... _CYNDER? _A silhouetted version of her, anyway. Funny aside, we cut to a small close up of the right side of her face, now slightly visible in the lighting, as the two soldiers hit the floor in slow motion, one headless, the other relatively intact.

_Burn it down to the ground_

_This'll create no sound_

_Elements all around_

_I need you to rise again!_

Cue a silhouetted male—not sure who yet- dispatching two armed, similarly silhouetted Chinese soldiers with fierce _kata._

_If noone can hurt you_

_Then nobody loves you_

As the song slows down again, the action goes slow-mo as well. We can tell that one soldier had his throat cut open by the male's left hind claws, and the other has had the Dragon's right front claws _painfully_ inserted into his abdomen, and is currently being somehow thrown over his shoulder. A quick pan around to his front, accompanied by the subtitle _Starring Spyro _and the left half of his face being illuminated in roughly the same level as Cynder's face earlier on, reveals that this is indeed the Purple Dragon himself! A quick cut, transitioned by a singular slice through the lens (pun not intended) to Cynder performing a move that could only be described as a scorpion's sting with her tailblade to an unaware Red [3] prompts her subtitle (_Cynder, Terror of the Skies)_ to pop up as well.

_If noone can break you_

_Then nobody loves you_

_If noone can change you_

_And noone can save you_

_If nobody loves you_

_Like I do_

The camera then cuts and zooms to a slightly silhouetted cargo bay of the HUMONGOUS Lockheed C-5M Galaxy, as a male, likely Spyro, steps forward, about to jump out of the aircraft. Anti-aircraft fire can be seen blazing as the camera cuts to a chase camera view of this male. Note the lack of parachute.

_Honey cuts like razor blades,_

_Sets you free, sets you free!_

He takes a running start and jumps! Following a series of flips and various assorted freefall tricks, he lands right on top on a Chinese soldier. The force of impact should have broken the Red's back, but the male cuts open his throat for good measure. A subtitle appears, the right side of his face is illuminated and—whaddya know? I was wrong! That was Flame (_Son of Ignitus, _the subtitle helpfully adds) performing that excellent kill! (_So outta character for him though_, I hear you say. _Hasn't he supposedly never killed a Troll in his life?_ Don't worry, it might just be for that stunt and that stunt only!)

_The only constant_

_Things have changed,_

_You will see, you will see!_

Cut to—you're not gonna believe this- a silhouetted American wielding a QBZ-95! He's moving in a crouched position, looking down the sights of the weapon. A subtitle points out that this character is played by _Steve Blum_. Two Dragons—Spyro and Cynder, definitely this time- are following in his wake.

_Burn it down to the ground_

_This'll create no sound_

_Elements all around_

_I need you to rise again!_

Oh snap! The song's upped tempo again; action scene starts! The two mates double team one Red with a QJY-88 light machine gun, while another is gunned down by Blum's character in the background. Coming under fire, they split. Spyro ducks underneath a low wall, using it as cover as he sprints to the other side as the 5.8x42mm round chews through it.

_If noone can hurt you_

_Then nobody loves you_

_If noone can break you_

_Then nobody loves you_

Dang it! Slow-mo hits, cut to scoped-in view of a QBU-88 rifle. The audible *KRACK!* sets in at about the 2:16 mark of the song, but Spyro somehow, someway, dodges the round while still in motion. Zoom out, sniper adjusts his rifle to lead the target... Cut to view from the very front of the sniper as his head turns to look behind him, Cynder's readied her tailblade for a stab attack. He stands up, draws his QSZ-92 sidearm and fires one shot, which is somehow deflected by Cynder's tailblade and returned to sender.

_If noone can change you_

_And noone can save you_

_If nobody loves you_

_Like I do!_

**WMD: Weapons of Mass (Draconic) Destruction**

Footnotes

[1] Infrared guidance: This is better known as a heatseeker. There's two kinds; the rear-aspect homing, and the all-aspect homing. Rear-aspect infrared guided missiles, where the term "heatseeker" stems from, had to be fired at an aircraft's engine for it to be able to track the target. All-aspect infrared guided missiles, on the other hand, could be fired from any direction, not just facing the target's tailpipe, and it would still home in on the target thanks to advances in thermal detection technology.

[2] Sustainer: This is the booster system of any missile. If it lacked this system, the launching aircraft would literally be able to outrun the missile, if it hadn't already been turned into a freefall bomb. If launched from the ground, well... It ain't going anywhere. The computer inside the tip of the missile is responsible for tracking and keeping the missile pointed at its target.

[3] Red: A slur against a communist person. Stems from the Cold War-era saying "Better dead than Red," representing that certain freedoms were, according to Western propaganda, stripped from citizens of those countries. Allow me to set the record straight, however: communism is, by no means, bad! Its command economy keeps everyone on the same page, social class-wise.


	6. A Rude Awakening

"_What we hear while we are asleep continues to resonate with us upon awakening."- Henry Reed, poet (born 1914, died 1986)_

_**Chapter 4.5**_

_**A Rude Awakening**_

_**September 23rd, 2012 AD**_

_**Washington D.C**_

_**Hay-Adams Hotel, 800 16th Street**_

_**0741 hours, Eastern Time Zone**_

__The Hay-Adams Hotel is the most prestigious hotel in D.C the author knows of. At an average star rating of four stars, it's also luxurious, and also pretty darn expensive, clocking in at $219 a night. It's seen its share of "Hotel of the Year" nominations in the eighty-four years it had been in business, and its view of the American executive branch's base of operations, the White House, is something not a lot of buildings in the D.C area wind up getting. As of the 22nd of September, however, it's currently hosting some... unexpected guests.

In room 401 of this massive building lie the motionless, sleeping bodies of the Dragons of Warfang, having fallen into a comfortable and well-deserved sleep on the way back from the headquarters of the CIA in Langley, Virginia. It took about forty-five minutes just to get the Dragons into the room without waking them up, wheeling them into the room in question on baggage carts and then placing them wherever there was room to set them down. Spyro, having finally found some decent comfort without even knowing it, had finally curled up on the bed he'd been clumsily placed on, in deep and solemn sleep. Flame had, unexpectedly, been piled on top of the Purple Dragon, but his sleep was about as sound as a Dragon in a hay pile. He obviously didn't know about these uncomfortable circumstances just yet.

Cynder, on the other hand, almost had it made, even in sleep. Having a bed all to herself only made her curl up even tighter than before, to the point where you'd call her a black and red lump instead of a black Dragoness. Not sure if that's the correct way to put it, but it's up there.

Sleep had whiled away at least eight hours from the 48 hours they had left in D.C, but to be honest, they needed the rest. Somehow, travel through the Gate had indeed exhausted the Dragons to the point where they were about as tired as they would have been at the hour of their arrival on Earth. This is worth contesting, as the true effects of the Gate were still unknown. Hell, they didn't even know if they would still wake up in this new world or the Gate would somehow send them back when they slept.

Spyro was the first to receive the answer to this question when his eyes slowly opened at the first hint of light. His body felt unresponsive, almost as if resources were being allocated on his inside to restore stamina and full body functions. Or was there some form of pressure bearing down on his back that was halting his movements? Either way, he knew he was still on Earth... And, therefore, still subject to the President's order. As he flicked his tail from left to right, he remembered how the previous night had ended.

As memory of the previous day returned to him, he began attempting to remove the pressure from his back and wings. It was tough going, and he began praying internally to Aurora or whatever deity governed this world to help him remove whatever or whoever was on his back. Surprisingly, Aurora listened; or so he thought.

***Knock-knock-knock!***

Flame jolted to life at the first hint of noise, falling off Spyro and, by extension, the bed. He was surprised to find out that the floor was actually soft felt as it broke his fall, not like the hardwood, marble or concrete floors he was used to in the Republic. Within seconds, he had flipped over onto his four legs and entered alert mode. Spyro had actually been surprised by the noise and remained on the bed, eyes wide open and staring at the door; his mind was still processing the fact that it had gotten rid of the crusher, whatever or whoever it turned out to be. Cynder was a deep sleeper, and as such, the knocking at the door had only prompted her to awake as if to preserve initial morning energy; that is to say, slowly and discreetly. Only her head rose from its resting position.

"I heard a few thuds in there, so I'm assuming you're all awake now. Manager's got the room key, and he's nowhere to be found at the moment, so I can't really get in and ask you this question face to face." The voice belonged to Private First Class Harry Faust, Lance Corporal Larsen's squad's SAW [1] gunner. A few unfortunate implications had originated from his last name when he enlisted, especially when it came to it being shared by the creator of a hotly-debated on the Internet kids' show that was about to enter its third season at the time the Dragons entered the world.

Flame backed out of alert mode, but remained cautious in case someone other than a Marine was at the door. Looking around, he, along with the other Dragons, found themselves in unfamiliar territory once more. "Where are we?" were the first words out of Cynder's mouth and through the wooden door to the Marine on the other side.

Faust rolled his eyes, having expected this answer. The Private was well built, a necessity to handle the sheer weight of the FN Minimi, better known as the American M249 SAW, weighing in at 17 lbs (7.5 kg) unloaded. He wasn't wearing any combat clothes like he was back at the DARPA lab the previous day, instead opting for a white t-shirt and denim jeans. His dog tags still hung around his neck, however. "You guys're in room 401 of the Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington, D.C. The food and room costs're being paid for by the United States government, so don't worry; you don't have to pull out your equivalent currency to our U.S dollar," he answered, chuckling a bit at the end of his previous sentence. "Speaking of food, the eggheads up at the CIA and DARPA, not to mention the hotel, want to know what exactly your species eats. Are you a meat-eater or a vegetarian?"

By this point, Cynder had leapt off the bed and onto all fours, but only at Faust's question did she find herself looking at the other Dragons... Who were also collectively looking at each other. Go figure. A short five-second pause followed as they tried to figure out exactly how to word their response. Finally, Spyro turned towards the door and began to speak. "I guess you could peg me as both of them. I can eat plants, dead animals... Well, let's just say I can eat anything that qualifies as 'food'." It was a trait he'd received from twelve years of his life spent living in a Dragonfly village, where swamp plants (that _weren't_ hazardous to them, anyway) were the primary source of food. A Dragon's jagged teeth, if you were crazy enough to get one of 'em to say "ah", served to help carve off slabs of meat from the carcasses or still-living bodies of animals and Trolls alike, meaning the Dragons were born carnivores.

Cynder's eyes seemed to glow in realization as her answer came to her head and started knocking. It had firmly crammed itself inside her vocal cords within two seconds of Spyro giving his. "Well, I may have inherited a few of his eating habits from him, what with marriage and all, so whatever he has, I'm pretty sure I can handle." she answered confidently.

Faust's reply can be summarized as something she had always expected whenever the 'm' word, in all tenses but the future, came out of her mouth in front of someone who didn't know. "Whoa, hold on, back up. _You two are __**married?**_" he replied, surprise evident in his voice. At roughly the same time, Flame's train of thought crashed and burned. He had his basic answer down, but any further elaboration was evaluated as a total loss by his mental emergency response team.

Cynder laughed for a bit in response. "_Yeah!_ What's the big deal? You act like you've never even known Dragons can actually marry in the country we come from!" she exclaimed. Frankly, Faust did know; Larsen had been rather cryptic in the matter when he told him that two Dragons in the bunch they were carting to 401 had gotten hitched, but he never said whom. This lessened the shock of being told Spyro and Cynder were marital partners, but not by much.

Flame had rerailed his thought train just long enough to put together a snarky reply. "Yes, my fair Cynder has taken that _loathsome _Purple Dragon Spyro's claw in holy matrimony," he began. To continue his act, he turned to the very male he had labeled as loathsome and began to drive his fake point home. "I wanted to make her velvet black scales mine and mine alone, but then you bought that engagement anklet—when I wasn't looking, mind you—and proposed the matter to her on a night where the Celestial Moons were aligned in the perfect place for the water to glisten in majestic light, _you traitorous swine!_" No noticable response was elicited from either Dragon, but Cynder could be heard trying to avoid breaking down in laughter.

He quickly returned to his non-snarky state as he remembered why his train of thought had been derailed in the first place. "The answer should be pretty obvious to you, unless you were taught differently than I was when it came to survival training. As soldiers, we're taught to eat whatever we can find, be it as simple as a stick or as deadly as a live tiger, thereby training the ability to consume plants into Dragons like us," he finally answered. "Not that I... _like_ sticks. What I'm tryin' to say is... It's basically the same thing as Cynder and Spyro."

Faust nodded, although the Dragons really couldn't see it thanks to him being behind a locked door. "Oh, alright. I'll tell the manager... Whenever I can _find_ that lazy bastard," he responded. The Private could then heard running down the hallway until he was out of earshot.

Spyro then turned to his compatriots-and mate- and shrugged his wings. "Well, welcome to Earth. We're definitely gonna be here a while, so you might as well get used to what they have to offer," he said simply. The other two Dragons reluctantly agreed before searching for ways to entertain themselves.

Footnote

[1] SAW gunner: **S**quad **A**utomatic **W**eapon. Used to suppress enemy movement, keeping them pinned down and in cover while the rest of the squad flanks around and does their dirty business. Highest value soldier in a single fireteam-a unit of four soldiers, more commonly referred to as a squad, which is actually eight men—apart from the team leader himself. In fiction, these are Big Guys; heavyweights or people who carry heavy equipment. They're normally not as intelligent as most other soldiers, but damn, do they know how to use a SAW! SAWs also have an image you would probably already know by this point; that of Rambo or Arnold Schwarzenegger from the movie _Commando: One Man Team,_ using the American M60 to mow down legions of bad guys. This provokes people into using said SAWs, classified as light machine guns, like Rambo in games like _Call of Duty_ or _MAG _instead of using them to keep enemies in cover. If used with a bipod, however...

Author's Note: *takes a deep breath* Okay, I know you guys are gonna be hating me for this, but I had to get something out over this three-day weekend. I got a little carried away and, therefore, could not finish what I intended to have completed for a content dump I had planned for this weekend. However, FWR's one year anniversary is coming up, and I swear to God, I am going to be putting all of my time and effort into finishing Chapter 6 of that fic for you guys, along with a potential content dump if I get finished with it early. For now, I hope you enjoyed this very short chapter of WMD, and please, review if you enjoyed.

(For those of you who have a dA account, I will not post 4.5 up there, reason being I made a separate copy of Chapter 5 with this at the very beginning of it. Chapter 5 will be a separate entity on , but WMD5a, as I call it, will be my "dA copy", even though all the modifications I make to the actual WMD5 file will need to be transferred to it so as to avoid deviation.)


	7. Delta Oscar Foxtrot Bravo PT 1

"_No ground gained was ever relinquished."-Major General James M. Gavin, commanding officer of the 82nd Airborne Division during World War II_

**Chapter 5**

**Delta Oscar Foxtrot Bravo** [1]

_**September 25th, 2012 AD**_

_**Washington D.C**_

_**Hay-Adams Hotel, Room 401**_

_**0912 hours Eastern Time Zone**_

_**BGM: Before I Forget**_

_** Slipknot**_

_** Vol. 3 (The Subliminal Verses)**_

Some people would look up at room 401 of the Hay-Adams and see what would appear to be three humans costumed as Dragons practicing for a publicity stunt for the next Legend of Spyro game, entitled _The Awakening_, which was announced at E3 2012 and was due out in early 2013 for the PlayStation 3, Xbox 360 and Wii U. _Skylanders_ had drummed up enough awareness of Spyro for the series to continue, although it would not be in the same form as other LoS games. However, what was really within were government secrets; the real deal. The Dragons weren't told they already had a presence on Earth as well, as to do so would cause a serious identity crisis, but their handlers knew they'd find out eventually.

What exactly was going on at that moment? Well, the Dragons were eating breakfast, of a composition the author could not decide on. When they weren't eating or touring the city in the same armored truck that had transported them to Langley, they had time to explore the hotel room they were staying in, making sure they knew every single detail about their temporary living quarters.

This small hotel room was dotted with necessities every man and child should need, among which were a "television", or "TV" for short, large enough to fit on a school desk, a small box with antennae sticking out of it (A "wireless router"), and a wheeled office chair, made out of leather. The window on the right side of the room, if you were to stand in between the twin beds, provided an excellent view of the D.C area. The White House, with its white marble pillars and huge windows, was the most prominent landmark you could see from here, the hotel being almost right across from it widthwise, second only to the massive, also marble, obelisk known only as the Washington Monument that appeared to jut out of the roof of the White House from the view of Hay-Adams room 401. No doubt Obama was inside its oval office, either catching up on excess paperwork or conversing with his advisors, or "Cabinet", as the humans liked to refer to them. Or, probably the more interesting route, sending "the file" to the commanding officer of the 82nd... Whoever _he_ was.

The TV bore one name and one name only; Daewoo. This "South Korean" company had made more than a few small electronics, including "VCRs", which the Dragons guessed played more of those moving pictures they had witnessed three days before. It only grew more complicated when it was revealed to them that some "pictures" were actually created using something called a "computer", on a "program" called "Macromedia Flash". Pretty damn scary, considering the primary form of art in the Republic was drawing and/or painting; if music wasn't counted as art, of course, which it is.

Flame's mouth took a large chunk out of the piece of steak laid out before him on the coffee table. Its carnivoric teeth ripped it into teeny tiny pieces before his reptilian tongue pushed it to the back of his throat for swallowing, followed by a similar lunge of the head into his meat to begin the process all over again. To a human, this would have looked absolutely disgusting, especially if it was a dead animal carcass he was devouring, but an Auroran would quickly defend it as the "natural" way a Dragon would eat something. Spyro and Cynder had laid back on the twin beds, listening to the less-than-eloquent music, having already eaten enough to satiate their hunger. Their thoughts quickly turned to home and the Auroran Republic; was Strigon, the Leopard officer they'd been looking for when they discovered the Gate, still alive? Was Squad C wondering where _they_ were? More importantly, _what __time was it over there?_

The answer was bound to consistently evade them until either one of the squad members came through or they were given the ability to go back through and inform the squad of their current situation. For now, however, they had about thirteen and a half hours left before they shipped out to Fort Bragg, where they would likely receive more information about the mission they were being sent on, along with some training to help _evade_ enemy gunfire. That was all they'd thought they would need.

Cynder turned to Spyro after reading a short passage about Fort Bragg in a hastily-constructed pamphlet the CIA had whipped up for the Visitors. For some reason, there wasn't a lot of information about the 82nd; probably because the passage only focused on Bragg, not on the units stationed there. "Hey, Spyro, whaddya think this "82nd Airborne" division's all about?" she asked. "I know there's the word 'Airborne' in its name, but it doesn't say what it specializes in exactly."

Flame looked up from his steak, his vocal cords ready to drop a snark bomb. However, it had been squelched and toned down at the last second, so it sounded a bit more like a snide remark. "Probably specializes in _**Airborne **_operations. _**Hence the name!**_" he exclaimed.

"Shut it, Corporal," Spyro cautioned. While the two _were_ friends, sometimes one has to keep the other in check. Flame makes sure Spyro doesn't get his tail into some disaster that lands him in the infirmary, or, worse, six feet in the ground, Spyro ensures Flame doesn't turn into a deadpan snarker by keeping him on a focused state of mind, and vice versa. "It's probably one of those prestigious units that perform a duty noone else in the American army would be sane enough to perform," he answered Cynder's question. "It's like the grenadier units the Empire had. We all know _none _of the average Greenskin footsoldiers would even set foot near one of 'em, since those things are pretty unstable once they're armed, and yet we had to fight at least one of 'em in every battle we were in during the Troll War."

Cynder's face then took on a look of realization. "I get it, so the Airborne attempts the risky parts of the battle without questioning what could happen?" she attempted to summarize. Her mate nodded in reply. "That raises another question, though; what exactly qualifies as 'risky' in this world? They've got firearms, missiles powered by "rockets", or whatever they call 'em, and they use "aircraft" instead of Dragons..."

Flame shrugged in response. "We'll find out, I guess. There's a lot of variables we don't know about yet," he reminded the other Dragons.

_Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah_

_OOOOOOOOH!_

The song, albeit undeniably awesome to a human's ears (Your Mileage May Vary on that, though), ended right after what sounded like a guttural roar to the Dragons. The DJ, or disk jockey, then came on through the speakers. "That was Slipknot with Before I Forget on DC 101.1, D.C's Rock Station... [2]" Suddenly, _more _knocking was heard at the door of room 401. _They just gave us our breakfast fifteen minutes ago! _Cynder thought. _How can it be lunch already?_

Spyro got his tail off the left bed, or so it would be if you were standing in the middle of the two, facing the TV. "Don't worry, I got it," he spoke. When he reached the door, he thanked Aurora once more that the doorknob was the pulldown kind and not the twist kind—easier on the three claws a Dragon would normally have—and opened the door.

Who should he find at the door other than Sergeant Galm? If you answered 'a fully equipped squad of United States Marines announcing to the Dragons that the timetable for their arrival at Fort Bragg had been moved up', you, sir, are wrong. The Golden Retriever had spared no expense in becoming none other than the fifth Visitor, arriving in full combat gear. That includes blue armor, in order to remain visible in the heat of battle, although black, lightly armored stealth variants existed, ankle pads, a small arm shield mounted on the left arm (The fighting style you'll normally see an Auroran equipped with a sword use involves using this padded shield to parry enemy sword strikes. Most are taught to swing their sword arm at the enemy as soon as the shield reflects the enemy attack to really exploit the gaping hole created by the parry. This _**has to be on impulse**_, otherwise the hostile'll just jump back with his guard up.) and a standard issue Echelon-class sword sheathed on his back. There was also a leather knapsack on his back, which Spyro noticed was not Cynder's. He did not bring a helmet. "Greetings, O Purple One. How's it goin'?" he greeted the Purple Dragon.

Spyro reeled back in shock for a few seconds. "How did you...?" he began.

"Find out where you were? Looking like someone you sent through who hasn't reported back in two days gets you a lot of places," he finished. He, of course, was referring to Vertas, who the Dragons knew was due to be released from the hospital at about the same time they were due to leave the hotel. Larsen's Marines had reassured them that the wolf had been caught up on the situation, and was going to be able to return to active military service when he got back to the Republic. "Where's the Corporal?"

Flame quickly whipped around at the sound of Galm's deep voice. "Is that you, Sarge?" he asked incredulously.

The Purple Dragon found himself being knocked for a loop as the Sergeant pushed him aside into the closet door on the right hand side. All he could gather of the conversation for a few seconds was Galm's greeting of "Corporal Flame, it's good to see you again!" He could also hear an added set of footsteps, coupled with a few doors closing. None of them realized this, but some other guests at the Hay-Adams had caught a glimpse of Sergeant Galm and whoever he was with, if any, yet their feeble minds only came up with the idea that room 401 was being occupied by furries.

Flame shouted in agreement as they performed their idea of a high five; knocking their forearms, or, in Flame's case, his left claw together for a second or two. "Galm, you couldn't have come at a better time! I was just thinking about Warfang!" Cynder greeted the squad leader, shaking his hand.

"Don't I always, Cynd?" Galm replied, grinning. He turned to the Leopard in similar clothing that Spyro had heard follow him into the room while he was without bearings, but no Dragon had taken notice of him until now. Both he and Cynder knew who he was, having quite literally been the first people to see him when he first got through Warfang's gates, but they held their breath on the matter for Galm to finally make the introduction to the Corporal. "Flame, I want you to meet somebody. This is the man we were searching for the day we discovered the gate, Major Strigon."

Strigon reluctantly extended his right hand for the maroon Dragon, which he gladly shook. "It's an honor to meet you, sir," Flame said. "Sorry I couldn't help you out with whatever may have come over you while you were out in the desert."

"It's okay. Thing is, I... Never really thought I'd be shaking the claw of the Son of Ignitus," Strigon responded. The Leopard officer had a voice equivalent to that of a young warrior. Funny story about that; he made Major when he was but 27. Something to do with his leadership of the 17th Division's 65th Regiment during the fight for Mount Ormel [4], one of the key battles of the Second Troll War. Thankfully, this battle was fought _after _Malefor's timely end.

Flame demonstrated a reaction similar to Spyro's when he saw Galm waiting at the door of the hotel room. He broke off his hand-shaking motion while he entered his reel-back motion, in true fluidity. "Oh, _verak_. You know, don't you?" he asked, shocked.

This caused Strigon to laugh for about two seconds. "Trust me, the first responsibilty of being a Major is to know your troops. The list I was given just happened to have given me your title!" he chuckled. "I know that may have touched a few nerves." The title "Son of Ignitus", though I am concerned that I may have mentioned this before somewhere, always seemed to remind Flame of what he was due to inherit. While he was much too young to take over as Fire Guardian at the time of his father's death (The Dragon that inherits the title of Guardian must be at least thirty years of age; Flame was but seventeen at the time, making him two years older than Spyro and Cynder), he knew that, upon the replacement Guardian (who shall be given a name and a voice in FWR Chapter 6. There you go, there's a little plug for you,) either dying or retiring, the title designating him as Ignitus' son would be shed from his name but a new one, Guardian of Fire, would take its place along with some responsibilities he would rather have eased into with the help of his father.

Digression aside, the Corporal brushed away any form of grief or offense by replying "It's alright; my old man was old anyway." This brought a sly smirk onto his face. "As redundant as that sounded..."

Both of the Aurorans in the room chortled for a brief moment before even _more _footsteps were heard coming down the hall. The Sergeant quickly snapped back into his attentive stance and gestured towards the door. "This is the man who helped us find Strigon alive, as well as the one who got him back to Warfang safely," he began as the footsteps gradually grew louder.

The Auroran edging around the corner and into the room was definitely none other than now-_Captain_ Hunter. He became a certified archer (not that it matters) in the Auroran Army in the time between Malefor's defeat and the present day, but that timeframe can be narrowed down to between the Republic striking a deal with the Cheetah Clan that didn't blackmail them like the Empire did, and the Second Battle of Warfang just about a month later. Unfortunately, his bow and quiver full of arrows are MIA [3] at the moment.

Now, all three Dragons definitely remember Hunter, and for good reason; it was Hunter who had brought the three of them together in the first place. Here's some background information, for those who want to know.

Two years into the Second Troll War, the Republic was being beaten back on its Western Front. The Empire is incredibly persistent in battle, and was thought to have near-limitless supplies of soldiers during the First Troll War seventy-one years back. (Turns out the Empire was more populous, enabling it to field more warriors.) Anyway, the Aurorans were without a Purple Dragon thanks to Ignitus floating Spyro's egg down a small river whose name escapes most historians (and often goes nicknamed as "The River of Spyro" because of this), and were growing increasingly desperate; with Malefor's army on one front and the Empire on the other, it looked like the end was imminent. Then Warfang, the closest city to Spyro and Cynder's little "prison", received information from a credible source revealing the Purple Dragon's location. General Tarsil, who had both eyes and one of his arms at the time, immediately organized a small task force with the objective of retrieving Spyro and returning him to Warfang unharmed. Cynder, who had also gone missing, was a secondary objective. The task force, among other people, consisted of Hunter, the guide, as well as Squads A and C of the Wolfhound Platoon. This included the then-Private First Class Flame, obviously.

Problem was, the Empire had been tipped off about Spyro as well. Emperor Thorn saw the Purple Dragon as the key to end the conflict in record time, and gave Lieutenant Balosar, who had secret loyalties to Malefor, the objective of capturing him and killing all Aurorans (and Dragons) who attempted to stop him.

Needless to say, it didn't go well for the Trolls, who had gotten to him before the Aurorans did. The lion's share of the Imperial task force wound up being slaughtered by Spyro and Cynder, and Balosar got his arm carved off trying to get away. Again, this was a tale prone to exaggeration thousands of years after the fact; Balosar became a Golem in the modern retellings, Flame was omitted, and the gore of his arm being slashed off by Cynder while he was in retreat became it coming off after he got it stuck in a wall.

But before all of that violence happened, Hunter had brought Flame down to the catacombs where Spyro had encased him and Cynder in crystal to make sure they were in good shape. That first checkup eventually became their first meeting, and Hunter had been the source of an eventual friendship.

Oh, and as for Balosar, otherwise known as the Golem? Well, let's just say he broke his neck in a tragic fall during the First Battle of Warfang. Caused by Cynder's claws. Okay, to be frank he had his left eye gouged out and his brain punctured by Cynder's tailblade, but does that really matter? You can always play _Dawn of the Dragon_ and see the Golem's demise for yourself; this is just a more down-to-Earth version of events. No pun intended.

Anyway, back to the story. Hunter, now the seventh Visitor, nodded towards the three Dragons before sitting down on a nearby bed. "Long time no see, Dragons," he joked, having been present with the Dragons at the Gate but hadn't spoken a word while he was down in the Chamber. His signature red cloak had been replaced by the blue uniform of an Auroran soldier, although he remained a Clanner. Archers have a lot of the niceties the standard soldier has removed, replaced by light armor (enough to withstand a couple arrow impacts, as it turns out), kneepads to facilitate sliding into a favorable position for a shot, daggers for those steamy situations where an enemy is close to chopping a sizable chunk out of him or if some other poor dumb bastard has chosen to die for his country by taking the spot the archer plans to use, as well as a tinderbox or a few bottles of Liquid Fire to create those oh-so-satisfying fire arrows. Believe you me, when a squad of archers hits something flammable, it goes up _fast._

Various forms of "hello" were received from the Dragons. "Captain, you finding everything okay over here?" Flame asked, in an attempt to start a conversation.

"It was your Sergeant who led me here, Flame. He's the one you should be asking that question to," Hunter stated. "But yes, everything's coming naturally to me. Except, of course, my charisma needs a little... shall we say... _Work_, so to speak."

"Something to do with your missing bow, I assume," Cynder guessed.

"Exactly. It's also why I took so long to get here."

"Hunter here boasted to one of the guards on the floor beneath us that his bow could hit any target at any range. Of course, the bows his clan makes can do just that, which is why it's valuable to us, but, from what I saw and heard, the... "human", I think they call themselves... didn't take it too well," Strigon elaborated.

**Flashback**

"Yeah? Well, in our world, "any range" is up to two and a half kilometers (about a mile and a half) [4]! You're nuts bringing a weapon like that into this hotel!"

"I _**don't**__**intend**_ to cause harm with my arrows. In _my_ country, it's _**perfectly legal**_ to bring weapons into public lodging, to help defend against criminals!" Hunter argued.

"I don't need to _remind _you, furry, that I myself am carrying a Glock 17 pistol chambered for the nine-by-nineteen millimeter round. It might be small, but it packs a hell of a punch!"

"I don't know a word you're saying, human, but-"

Unfortunately, he was interrupted by a powerful right hook from the guard slamming into his face, spinning him around 180 degrees and knocking him down to one knee. ***sound effect: **_**YOU HAVE BEEN STUNNED.**_**-Assassin's Creed: Revelations/Brotherhood multiplayer, message played when, well, you get stunned.*** He was allowed to regain his bearings, but the punch spoke two words; Absolute. Final. "You got me in a good mood, furry. I'll give your bow and arrows back once you're done visiting the Dragons, but you better not come back after that or I'll put a bullet right between your eyes. You got that?"

Hunter swore underneath his breath. "Alright. But know this, human; _**I **__**don't**__** take violence against me lightly.**_" He took his bow off his shoulders and gave it to the guard before removing his quiver and doing the same with it, resuming his climb up the stairs when he was done.

"Pleasure doing business with you... _Hunter._" The guard had played a little too much _Spyro_ for his own good, enough to recognize any character from the games at first glance. He hid this knowledge from the Cheetah to make sure he didn't receive an arrow to the gut for gushing over him like a fanboy. He was one of thousands of _Spyro_ fans awaiting the release of _The Awakening_, anxiously awaiting the day when Spyro and Cynder would once again grace his screen. _My two children would love to hear about this! _the creative side of his brain thought. _Just as long as I don't pull the night shift again..._

**End Flashback**

"I have no idea how he knew my name. Maybe he has a sixth sense, but I cannot confirm for certain." Hunter finished. All had fallen silent to listen to the whole story, but none could comprehend the guard's ability to know his name.

Flame was the first to break the silence in the room. "Woof. Tough break."

"I'm surprised your face hasn't bruised yet," Cynder pointed out.

**_BGM: All These Things That I've Done_**

_** The Killers**_

_** Hot Fuss**_

Hunter felt the left side of his face. It still ached, but not too badly. He'd taken worse knocks during his battles than a right hook from some schmuck of a guard who was asking for an arrow to his knee. That even included one from his own Chief Prowlus when the hilt of his blade knocked him out until morning while camping in the Enchanted Forest. "It still hurts like hell, but you three know better than anyone that I've had worse."

Spyro's mind flashed back to the Enchanted Forest. While the knockout dart administered by a Cheetah blowgun had sent him into a state of unconsciousness, he vaguely remembered spending his last few seconds in a conscious form watching his then-new ally get beaned in the head by a shadowy figure's sword hilt after he had gone into alert mode. One of the Cheetahs had later told him that he had taken his dart straight to the head and rightfully should have blacked out right away. "Hunter, I'm tempted to agree with you on that count. When Prowlus appeared to cave your head in with his sword hilt, it could have easily been your life instead of unconsciousness."

"**_Don't remind me!_**" Flame and Cynder shouted in unison. Being knocked out had brought with it some funky side effects; nothing the Dragons wanted to relive. Prowlus had told them in apology after the end of the Malefor debacle it was thanks to the contents of the dart, but the darts' targets wanted to say otherwise.

"Okay, okay! Sorry Cynder! _Sheesh!_"

This time, it was Flame's turn to bring on the dirty, threatening look. Save for Hunter and Spyro, noone was amused. This reminded the Black Dragoness of one simple question she had wanted to ask Sergeant Galm but didn't want to interrupt Hunter with.

"How _did_ you find the Major, anyway?"

This was a simple question to answer for Galm, but to really answer it required him to dig in his memory a little bit. "Well..." he began.

**Flashback #2**

_May 7th, 3369 AY_

_Aurora Desert, 13 miles northwest of Warfang, Auroran Republic_

_1343 hours Warfang time_

Site B. The Gate had taken up about thirty or so minutes of their time, meaning Squad C's Aurorans had to hustle to get there to avoid being behind Troll holdouts lying in wait along their route made the wise decision not to attack them, which would have put them behind schedule even more. It was an act of Aurora's providence to get them to their objective unscathed.

Waiting for them were the squad's five remaining Dragons; Corporal Sunburn, Private Andor, Private Bandit, Private First Class Camo (Ka-mo) and Private First Class Whirlwind; the only Dragoness in the actual squad and Sunburn's love interest. [5] They were sniffing the air looking for Strigon's scent, but when the rest of the squad arrived, they immediately regrouped on Sergeant Galm with good news. "Sarge!" Sunburn shouted as he ran over to his squad. He was an orange-scaled Dragon, but had Flame's claw in friendship, having known each other since childhood. Unlike Flame, however, he actually _was _a warrior Dragon. Despite differences in occupation, however, they were still inseparable whenever Vertas, Spyro and Ember were out of the picture.

An unfortunate side effect of skidding to a stop in a desert, the squad found out as the Dragons slid to a halt in front of them, is that _obscene_ amounts of sand get kicked up and blown into their faces. Incessant coughing ensued, even among the Dragons, making them wish they had used their shemaughs [6] while out in the desert. "Aurora, can't you scalies learn to stop skidding? You're choking us on sand out here!"

"Sorry Hydrak, but it's Strigon. We got a strong scent not too far from here, near that cave. Not that of a dead body, I can tell you that much," Whirlwind, a blue-scaled Wind Dragoness, explained.

"Cave, m'am?" Galm questioned, intrigued.

"Yes sir, Sarge, a large cave. Might I draw your attention to our left-front, sir?"

The squad collectively about-faced in the direction Whirlwind indicated. Sure enough, from their point of view, there was an opening in one of the plateaus, possibly indicating an entrance. This caused Galm to give her a high-claw. "Nice work, Private. If he's in there, we're gonna be making the news tomorrow, and Colonel Asgard'll probably give you a medal!" Galm exclaimed.

"All the more reason to take her on a date," Sunburn whispered to himself. "Flame, help me out here, buddy; words are failing me right now..."

"Hey, don't steal _all_ the glory, Whirlwind. I'm the one who _alerted you_ to that scent in the first place!" Bandit joked. He was a silver-scaled Ice Dragon, handy when criminals or enemy combatants're trying to escape.

In about five minutes, Squad C had formed up in front of what was now definitely a cave. "Scent's still there," Private Andor, a white Fire Dragon, cautioned. "It's just as strong as when we left it."

Galm nodded. "Alright, if the Dragons' noses can be trusted, that's where Strigon's hiding." He turned to Captain Hunter, the Cheetah archer Tarsil had sent along with them, as well as one of his closest friends from the Troll War. "Hunter, you think you can get on top of that plateau and cover the entrance?"

Hunter looked up at the plateau, working out footholds and angles. The wind was calm, but for close range shots, it didn't really matter. The only thing he really needed to adjust for was elevation, but after about half a minute, he made his decision. "I'll need to find some footholds to grab onto, but apart from that I think I can provide some decent cover should the holdouts ambush us. Give me some time to get up there."

Galm smiled at Hunter's plan and gave a thumbs up. "Alright, Hunter, it's your call. If Strigon tries anything or turns out to be a hostage, take a shot."

"I will endeavour to follow your requests to the letter, Sergeant." He then crouched and began moving towards the plateau, evading line of sight with the cave to make his presence as incognito as possible.

Once the Captain was out of the squad's line of sight, Galm nodded at Corporal Vizef, who had the job of making the squad's presence known to Strigon should he be found alive. "Alright, Corporal, it's your time to shine."

Vizef saluted and stood up, facing the cave. "**Major Strigon!**" he shouted. **"We're coming for ya, sit tight!**"

Meanwhile, inside the cave, Major Strigon lay like a slug, having been kidnapped by a Tiger thug. He didn't recognize his captor, but the thug had told him he was a former serviceman during the Second Troll War; one "[the Republic] mindlessly sent to [his] grave." To be frank, the actual saying was "I'm one of the soldiers your coward of a "government" mindlessly sent to their graves!" but I had to paraphrase it.

Upon hearing someone call to his hostage that help was on its way, the thug snarled. He had forgotten that the Republic was persistent in tracking missing persons, especially missing officers. Turning to the Major, he began to debate what precisely to do with him now that the Republic was on his doorstep. Should he kill him now or get them to back off by taking him as a human shield? He was leaning towards kill when he realized that the squad outside would just barge into the cave and kill _him_ before they reclaimed the body anyway.

So he made the hard and overall risky choice. He took his Scorpia-class dagger off his homemade table and grabbed Strigon by the collar of his shirt. "Come here, Major. We're going for a little walk." His cold Australian accent had the vein of a psychopath running through it, and Strigon knew it. Before he could resist, however, he had a dagger put to his neck and was trotted out of the cave, his hands still tied around his back.

The green scaled Earth Dragon Camo's acute eyesight caught the thug coming out of the cave before anyone else did, but didn't dare speak up in fear of getting Strigon killed in the process. Everyone else saw just Strigon. The gleam of the dagger in the thug's hand, held up to his throat, was enough to draw attention to the person behind him, and when they entered the light, it became clear that the Major was a hostage.

"_Well, well, well, what have we here?_" the thug coldly greeted the Republican soldiers. "I simply _must_ congratulate you for finding me here, but, as you may have already guessed from my holding your precious Major Strigon captive, it is already too late for him and for you."

"Let him go, criminal. You're outnumbered." Galm ordered.

"Ah. Outnumbered, but never outbargained. If you want him back alive, you can tell your commanding officer that I demand no other ransom than fifty thousand blue gems. No more, no less!"

"**Silence!**" Galm shouted. "I _do not _make deals with _**liars**_ and _**murderers.**_ Need I remind you that you are staring at seven Aurorans and five Dragons, carrying four different elements? It's the face of death itself! You cannot _hope_ to win against such odds!"

The Tiger did the math. That was only twelve warriors. He knew from his time in the Army that squads consisted of fourteen of them. Not only that, but Galm had defied his terms. Once again, the debate between kill and let live arose in his mind.

Eventually, he decided to go down a far more risky path, taking all factors, even those completely unknown to him, into account. A "Third Option," if you will. "Very well. If you wish to negotiate terms right here, right now, that's fine, but his time is slowly ticking away. Make this quick," he snapped.

Completely unknown to the thug, there was an archer making his way up the plateau behind him. Hunter had successfully managed to avoid his line of sight, and, despite climbing up a rocky cliff using only daggers and some footholds being harder than it looked, was just close enough to the edge to grab onto it and pull himself up. His arms were screaming in pain just from pulling himself up, and he rolled over on his back upon finishing his climb to rest for a few short moments. He took plenty of deep breaths before coming to a crouched state and readying his bow.

_The fool,_ Hunter thought. _He's left his rear guard open. Should have stayed close to the cave's entrance. _The thug's back, in other words, was greatly exposed to attack. Under normal circumstances, he would have tried to put an arrow in his knee, immobilizing him, but his stupidity was_crying_ for attention. So he readied an arrow to place in his back.

The bows made by the Cheetah clan are second to none, not even those the Republic makes on their own. They're equipped with two dials; one to adjust for distance, the other wind speed. They adjust the tension of the string, making sure just the right amount of strength needed to hit the target is imparted on the arrow. None really came into use for this shot. All he did was pull back on the string, point the pointy end of the arrow at the Tiger's back...

"Maybe if we could give you Bandit in exchange for the Major-"

"**HA!** You really think I'm interested in a _pathetic_ Ice Dragon, you miserable cunts? Killing this man won't be a crime! It'll get one less useless bastard off the face of the earth's sur-" His refusal was interrupted by a sudden screaming pain in his backside. His legs began to grow weak and unstable, and his grip on the dagger slowly began to weaken. Something was wrong, and he knew it. He turned his head around and saw that someone had shot him in the back with an arrow. That same someone was crouching atop the cave he called home for two years, bow in hand. In other words, he had been duped into coming out of his hideout, hostage in hand so the Republic could kill him and take him off the wanted list for good. As the last of his strength faded from his body and his spirit fought to be released from its mortally wounded shell, he only had time to realize one simple error. _Thirteen. Thirteen warriors. There was one more right behind me. Bastards._ Those were his last thoughts as he crumpled to the desert, the arrow's point plunging into his vital organs upon impact. Strigon remained standing, his captor having finally become deceased. Squad C darted over to him.

Everyone in Squad C was relieved to have Strigon alive and well. Various forms of "Major, are you alright?", "Thank Aurora we found you!" and "Nice to meet you" were spoken as they crowded around him and took his bindings off his hands.

"Thanks for getting me outta that mess," Strigon commended Sergeant Galm.

"Don't thank me, thank Hunter and Whirlwind. If it weren't for them, we'd have to take your body home and write your folks."

Hunter put back his bow and leapt off the plateau, combat rolling as he hit the ground. "Come on, let's get you back to the Fortress before it gets dark, sir. Your duty awaits you."

**End Flashback #2**

"So, that's how we got Strigon back. Sunburn took care of the body Hunter left behind, and then we returned to Warfang. We waited there for two whole days, then the Major, Hunter and I went through the Gate to check on you, and... Here we are."

Hunter nodded. "Upon our arrival, the humans asked for everything from our names to our ages, then told us to sign a document they called the "Official Secrets Act". Sure enough, we found your names on it, along with some shaky handwriting. It was Vertas' name, but we don't know what happened to him. That's our question to you."

Spyro summarized the events following their passage through the Gate prior to their signing of the OSA, as they had taken to calling it.

**_BGM: What I've Done_**

_** Linkin Park**_

_** Minutes to Midnight**_

Major Strigon whistled. "That's strange. You got any idea why he's still alive?"

"Actually," Cynder cut in, "the doctors who got the bullets out of him said that he's actually tougher and more durable than the average human. Something to do with your average body builds."

That was when Flame remembered the size of Hunter's arrows. Doing a little math, he discovered that size equaled stopping power; therefore, while Vertas had been hit by bullets going at about "the speed of sound", according to Larsen, an arrow 5.56 by 45 millimeters in size wouldn't faze an Auroran. Comparing the size of the point of Hunter's arrows to the size of the actual bullet (Larsen had also added that the majority of the so-called "bullet" was "cartridge and propellant", while the "tip" was the actual damaging portion; the bullet itself.), he found that, if it were the humans' turn to cross over and, say, Faust was the one hit, he would have been flung onto his back by sheer impact force alone instead of simply clutching the arrow in pain and agony or falling over dead. Not accounting for armor, of course. For once, paying attention in Volteer's Physics class paid off for him!

"Hold on a minute. Let's say you wanted to shoot that guard with your bow in revenge for him punching you in the face," Flame began.

"And I _will_; he deserves a flesh wound, at least," Hunter growled.

"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, because our arrows have had to adjust in size and power over time to stop Auroran and Troll foes, which are supposedly "tougher" than humans, wouldn't that mean you would kill him or, at the very least, knock him down on impact?"

Spyro was horrified by this revelation at first, but he let it pass. Hunter deserved some attempt to fire an arrow on this world, but wasn't sure as to the potential cost of the whole thing. Besides, once their visitors left, it would be business as usual; that is, hanging around like "lounge lizards", he believed the human term was for lazy Dragons.

The Cheetah pondered Flame's thought for a brief moment. "That _does_ sound promising, Corporal. Keep in mind, I might not get a chance to test this for myself, but you may be right."

Cynder faceclawed at the length of this conversation. "That's all well and good, but what in the name of Aurora is in that knapsack, Galm?"

Galm's eyes lit up in remembrance. He was supposed to leave in a couple minutes anyway to get back to the Republic, but he had packed some things in his knapsack that he thought would be quite beneficial to the Dragons for the moment. "Oh, of course Cynder. Almost forgot..." He took off his knapsack and set it down on the left bed.

"Now, your "friends", the "CIA", told me you were going to a place called "Fort Bragg" starting tonight, so I thought you needed to look your best for the commanding officer of this world's 82nd Division there." He opened the flap and brought out some claw sharpeners, claw polish, and scale polish. Y'know, bring out a shine in the Dragons. (It's also every instrument of Draconic makeup out there. Blush and mascara just do not exist in their world.) "You can apply these to yourselves, can't you?" the Sergeant wondered.

The Purple Dragon and his mate/wife stared at each other for a moment before answering. "Yeah, I think we can. Is it all really necessary, though?" Cynder asked.

"Well, it's your call. I'd use all of it, but that's all up to you," he explained. He stood up and prepared to leave the room. "We better get going. Don't want Tarsil to come through lookin' for us."

"I second that motion," Hunter agreed. "Come along now, Major."

Strigon took visible offense to being commanded to do something by someone he outranked. "Wha- Need I _remind _you, Hunter, that you are my **_direct subordinate__?_**"

"Yes, yes, kill the messenger."

Before Galm left the room, he remembered something, almost wanting to slap himself for not mentioning it before. "Oh, by the way, you might wanna get rid of those bottles when you're done with 'em. You don't want people putting together conspiracy theories based on something you leave behind."

The Dragons nodded. "We'll take care of 'em, Sarge," Flame replied.

"You won't be seeing _these_ again, that's for sure," Spyro affirmed.

Galm smiled. "Good. We'll see you when you get back, whenever that is." He then turned and left the Dragons' sight.

Cynder looked over the bottles and tools left lying about the coffee table. Most were brand new, never uncorked or used. Some she recognized as from her and Spyro's flat in Warfang's residential sector. _Well, no time like the present,_ she thought. She spun around towards the males, legs straight and a small smirk on her face. "Okay, who wants to go first?"

Spyro and Flame took a quick glance at each other. Without even thinking, they both shrugged with their wings and stepped forward. "Let's just get this over with. My steak's already cold, anyway," Flame decided.

Our camera zooms past the Dragons towards the digital clock on the nightstand in between the two beds. Currently, it reads **_10:07 AM_**_. _We cut to that same clock later, now reading **_11:23 PM_**. The dead of night, in other words. The lights were off, but the Dragons were not asleep. They were actually awaiting the armored truck's arrival at the hotel, their form of transportation to get to Fort Bragg. Spyro stood by the window, taking one last look at Washington's landmarks, from the White House to the Washington Monument and beyond. Cynder lay on the right-hand bed, keeping track of time. Flame, on the other hand, just lay on the couch, taking in his surroundings one last time.

"Spyro, are you sure about this? I don't think it's a good idea to just let the humans take us without knowing what to expect," Cynder asked softly.

"We've got no choice, Cynd. It was the President's decision to send us to this... "China". It's the same way with Fort Bragg. Our time there'll help us out when it's time for the real thing."

"Yeah, Cynder, listen to your mate. You know what they say; 'The Purple Dragon is always right.'" Flame explained.

"But I'm nervous. We're dealing with a whole different kind of warfare here. Who knows what we'll be dealing with over there?"

"We'll be fine. Trust me," Spyro replied.

Turning back to the window, he noticed two headlights racing towards the hotel, past the White House. _The armored truck? This early? _the Purple Dragon thought. "Cynder, is that what I think it is?" he asked, gesturing out the window with his tail.

The black Dragoness got out of her bed and ran to Spyro's side. She only saw them for a few short seconds, but she knew what they were for. It was 11:25. No other traffic was on the road save for some travelers looking for a place to stay. The truck wasn't early; it was right on time. She lowered her head for a brief moment. "May Aurora have mercy on our souls," she whispered in prayer before turning her head to look at Flame. "Flame, the truck's here. We'd better get down to the lobby."

Flame grudgingly stood up. "Already? I was just about to get some shuteye." He rubbed his forehead for a bit. "Is everything out of the picture? Everything the Sergeant brought here, I mean?"

"Don't worry, we got it. Most of it's shattered glass in the trash can, but Spyro incinerated the sharpeners. Noone'll know we've been here for a while." Cynder reassured the Corporal. "Let's move 'em out; can't keep Sergeant Logan waiting!" Logan was the truck's driver; under normal circumstances he would be the leader of Larsen's platoon's Alpha Team. Larsen was leader of Bravo Team.

"Amen to that!" Spyro added. Smiling, Cynder was the one to lead the rest of the Dragons out of the hotel room they had called home for two days and almost two nights. However, it would be Spyro who remained behind for a few seconds to take one last glimpse at the hotel room. It seemed so surreal to leave it behind, almost as if it wanted them to stay. But orders were orders; the Dragons needed to be caught up on the tools of the trade known as "modern warfare," and that meant leaving the safety of the Hay-Adams behind. With a sigh, he closed the door behind him.

***Sound effect: night vision goggles switching on***

**To Be Continued**

**Footnotes**

**[1] **Delta Oscar Foxtrot Bravo: NATO phonetic alphabet for "Dragons of Fort Bragg." Yes, I had to go there. "The Dragons of Warfang" you heard Cynder refer to in Chapter 4 is the nickname associated with Spyro, Cynder, Flame and Ember; the four most well-known Draconic occupants of Warfang apart from the Guardians themselves.

**[2] **DC 101.1, DC's Rock Station: If you live in the Washington D.C/Baltimore area, come on, I dare you. Turn on the radio. Turn the dial to 101.1. What do you hear? That's right; DC 101.1 _does _exist. Did you know that DC 101.1 was the first American radio station to play a Beatles song? It was "I Want to Hold Your Hand," first aired in America in December of 1963, but the single was released on November 29th.

**[3] **MIA: **M**issing **I**n **A**ction. But you already knew that, didn't you?

**[4] **"... 'any range' is up to two and a half kilometers!": This was made in reference to the distance of the longest shot that led to a kill ever made by a sniper. This shot—well, _two_ shots actually—was made in November of 2009, during the War in Afghanistan. Now, the following might surprise you; **_those shots were __not__ fired by an American sniper!_** In reality, it was a British Corporal by the name of Craig Harrison. The situation was as follows: Harrison had located a Taliban machine gun team operating a PKM in the Helmand province. From what I can gleam from the details, that MG was not threatening any of his fellow soldiers yet; wiping it out before it could open fire was likely his top priority. Taking aim with his Accuracy International L115A3 ( both it and its predecessor, the L96, are _great _rifles, by the way), he fired two .300 Winchester Magnum rounds. Both reached their target(s). Then, in an added "screw you", he fired another shot that _managed to hit _**_the_****_PKM the Taliban fighters had been using when they were shot!_** That's a tiny target! The previous longest shot record had been held by a Canadian, also Corporal in rank, named Rob Furlong, made against an al-Qaeda fighter, _also_ in Afghanistan, during Operation Anaconda in 2002. The rifle used was the McMillan Bros Tac-50, used by Canadian special forces and the best .50 rifle in the world. Yes, even outclassing the M82 anti-material rifle. This remains the longest shot made by an _anti-material_ rifle, though; the .50 caliber sniper rifles are used primarily in anti-material missions. This means using it on a lone infantryman is... Overkill at best.

**[5] **Sunburn, Andor, Bandit, Camo and Whirlwind: All five of these Dragons have names taken from various chapters in Spyro's storied 13 year history. Sunburn, Camo and Whirlwind were from the recent spin-off _Skylanders: Spyro's Adventure_; I chose Sunburn and Whirlwind just to tap into the Sunburn x Whirlwind couple I heard fans were creating, as well as to add the first other Wind Dragoness to the Digolgrin-verse. Camo was chosen to add an Earth Dragon to the squad. Andor was from the original Spyro game released in 1998, as one of the Dragons from the Magic Crafters world. (Don't expect him to say anything interesting when you actually _free_ him though...) Bandit was the only one of these five to _not _be named after a Dragon; he was named for an Armadillo featured in _Spyro: Shadow Legacy_ for the Nintendo DS, released in 2005, also known as the last game in the Classic Spyro series.

Author's Note: Ugh. This is the longest thing I've ever written without copying and pasting something into it. It's fifteen pages long, according to OpenOffice, and Aurora knows how many kilobytes. This'll probably go up to around twenty when I get WMD5a ready for posting on dA. All this'll be copied and pasted into 5a, which, again, contains what you know as Chapter 4.5 plus this entire chapter. I don't even _wanna_ know what it'll look like when I post it up there. Anyway, that's this chapter completed. Please review if you enjoyed, and please check out my other fic **For Whatever Remains** and my _Rio_ oneshot transpose job... thing **Sweet Home Minnesota** if you like WMD. They're very different in style, setting and plot, obviously, but it's everything you've come to expect. I'll see you next time!


	8. Delta Oscar Foxtrot Bravo PT 2

"_There are only two kinds of people who understand Marines: Marines and the enemy. Everyone else just has a second-hand opinion."-General William Thomson, U.S Army_

_WarriorEye V1.2_

_Initializing..._

"Is that helmet cam rolling, Harry?"

**Helmet Cam Online**

**Soldier: Private First Class Harry G. Faust**

**Assigned to: 22nd Marine Expeditionary Unit, Camp Lejeune, NC**

**REASSIGNMENT PENDING: Marine Special Operations Regiment, Camp Lejeune, NC** [1]

**Video-Audio Link Online, Signal Strength 67%**

_**September 25th, 2012 AD**_

_**Washington D.C**_

_**H Street NW**_

_**One mile from Hay-Adams Hotel**_

_**2322 hours, Eastern Time Zone**_

_**BGM: Kickstart My Heart**_

_** Motley Crue**_

_** Dr. Feelgood**_

"Yeah, there's a little red light blinking. Hot damn, this whole MARSOC thing is getting more interesting by the minute!"

Being assigned to MARSOC—**MAR**ine **S**pecial **O**perations **C**ommand—takes a lot of guts under normal circumstances. Wanna-be special operators, as fit as they have to be, have to pass a seven-month Individual Training Course in order to be able to handle the gamut of small-scale, high-intensity spec-ops missions. It's not as easy as it sounds; these are conducted in spartan conditions designed to push each applicant to their limits, and possibly beyond. Only a few make the cut.

The Navy SEALs, now known as DEVGRU Tier 1, have been around longer than MARSOC, MARSOC itself having been founded in February of 2006. It's because of this "new-to-the-scene" status that it doesn't gain as much exposure as, say, Force Recon or the SEALs, for that matter. However, because the Marines are few in number as they are (Approximately 240,000 personnel compared to about 1,000,000 personnel in the Army), this allows for much fewer MARSOC operators than SEALs, though their numbers have not been disclosed.

However, in order to protect the Visitors, and the identities of the Marines that had first seen them, Larsen's Marines were reassigned to MARSOC, thereby aiding in redacting their names from documents and preventing them from disclosing what they had seen.

Larsen's squad, though you've been introduced to three members already, consisted of squad leader Lance Corporal Larsen, SAW gunner Private First Class Faust, whose point of view you are now experiencing, assistant gunner Private Sigmund, medic Private Hanke, rifleman Private Nichols, and grenadier Private First Class Patterson. All had been deployed to Afghanistan and/or Iraq at least once with the exception of Nichols, who had arrived just two months before to replace a Marine who had gone on to join the 82nd.

"You can say that again," Faust replied. "Can't believe your cover story for this, Lance Corporal." [2] Bravo Team of the 22nd MEU's Ground Combat Element (part of the MAGTF, the **M**arine **A**ir **G**round **T**ask **F**orce) had taken up full combat gear in preparation for what would look like a raid condoned by the NDAA, or **N**ational **D**efense **A**uthorization **A**ct, allowing the military to pursue and capture homegrown terrorists. In truth, they had arrived to retrieve the Dragons. What they didn't know was that Spyro had already sighted the armored truck they were riding in—a black 2001 International 4000-heading right for the Hay-Adams Hotel, their destination.

"It's a great cover, isn't it? Good thing this won't wind up on the news tomorrow; I've already cleared it with the night manager, he knows we're coming," Larsen explained.

"Everybody else'll just have a second opinion, right?" Nichols piped in. "I mean, Lord knows that the United States Marine Corps'll come climbing in your windows and snatching your people up."

The entire squad laughed for about two seconds. "Yes, because we're Marines by day and bed intruders by night," Sigmund snarked. He, like all the other Marines in the back of the truck, carried an M16A4 rifle with mounted flashlight. Larsen, being squad leader, normally had an ACOG [3] scope on his rifle. The only exception was while he was guarding the EMP, but we all know what happened that day. Everybody else had to make do with the M16's iron sights.

"Ooh, better watch it, Sigmund," Hanke cautioned. "Flame's not gonna like you stealing his thunder."

_"He isn't even in the truck right now!" _He sighed. "Jesus, do _all _medics have to have sharp tongues?"

"Well, it helps in theory."

_"__**Cut it out, both of you!**__" _Larsen shouted. "Sigmund's right, you don't need to wisecrack about somebody who doesn't even _know _you very well!"

The squad medic began to slouch. "Jeez, go all Captain Obvious on me, why don't you..."

Suddenly, they felt the truck come to a stop, not at a red light but in front of the Hay-Adams hotel. Conveniently, the Hay-Adams has the privilege of having a church right across the street from it, St. John's Church. Not only is it a place of worship come Sunday, it's also a landmark if you happen to be looking for the Hay-Adams. The rooms on the front door's side of the hotel actually have a view of it. "We've arrived at your destination, Lance Corporal," the driver, a Sergeant Logan, announced.

Larsen nodded. "Alright Sarge, kill the music. We're headed out." The Marines got off their benches and faced the double doors at the rear of the truck at a crouch. Larsen and Patterson were at the front of the squad, Nichols and Hanke were in the middle, and Faust and Sigmund were at their rear.

The Lance Corporal reached out with his right hand and turned a latch to unlock the doors before he and Patterson leapt out onto the street. Here, we leave WarriorEye-view and cut to a shot of the Marines climbing out of the truck and switching on their flashlights. They took some time to establish 360-degree security—valuable in a hostile urban enviroment, where threats can come from anywhere—before their squad leader finished evaluating the situation by examining their objective with his ACOG.

"Okay Bravo Team, stack up on the front door. Flashlights off, don't want anybody knowing we're here," he whispered.

"Yes sir."

_**BGM: Metal Gear Solid 2 Main Theme**_

_** Harry Gregson-Williams**_

The beams of light that once slashed the cold night in two disappeared in the blink of an eye. All the Marines really needed were the floodlights that illuminated the hotel's entrance for guests returning from long nights of partying. They stood up and moved as a unit towards the front entrance, making sure they didn't sprint right through the plants the owners put out between the actual street and the parkway leading up to their point of entry.

_How did they overcome __that__ obstacle?, _you may be asking. Well, Marine fireteams are made up of two separate elements; Alpha and Bravo. Larsen, being squad leader, was leader of Alpha element while Patterson commanded Bravo. This means they can move as two separate entities, and therefore, they can split up and then rejoin at another location. Bravo took the right part of the parkway while Alpha took the left.

About two minutes had elapsed since the Marines first left the truck, and already Charlie Team had arrived at the entrance to the hotel. To remain unseen, they pressed their backs against the wall, waiting for Larsen to give instructions. At the moment, he was communicating with Logan back in the truck via radio, who had access to Faust's camera feed.

"Alamo, this is Trident 22 Actual, we are in position at the entrance. Standing by to breach, over."

"Solid copy, Trident 22. Breach when ready. Out."

Larsen removed his hand from his right ear, ending his transmission. "Alright. Nichols, you're on point. On my signal..."

He outstretched his left hand with an open palm, meaning he was counting down from five. Normally, he'd count in his head and then nod or say "Now!" as his signal. Since Nichols was the new guy, however, he needed some help determining when that signal was. For him, however, time seemed to pass extra slowly.

_Five..._

_ Four..._

_ Three..._

_ Two..._

_ One..._

"Breaching, breaching!" [4]

Nichols was quite surprised at what being pointman actually meant. Instead of him being the one to bust open the door, his squad leader had put most of his back into a shoulder barge to slam the door open. He rushed into the hotel's lobby while Larsen recovered, halting after a few feet to let the rest of his squad form up next to him. As expected, there were still people in the lobby, and all were pleasantly shocked to see a fully armed squad of Marines burst into the room.

"**MARINES! EVERYBODY DOWN!" **Faust shouted.

_**Chapter 6**_

_**Delta Oscar Foxtrot Bravo**_

_**Part 2**_

Faust and Nichols swept the lobby with their iron sights before the squad split up to check out the rest of the area. About thirty seconds later, the call "Lobby clear!" rang out throughout the room. "Alright! Faust, Nichols, stay here and get the civilians out! Everyone else, take the stairs. Go, go!" Larsen commanded.

Within seconds, his Marines had sprinted towards the old wooden staircase and had begun their climb to the fourth floor of the hotel, where the Dragons resided. When they wheeled the Dragons to room 401, they had used an elevator, but in order to maintain their cover, they avoided it like the Black Plague. After all, what Marine would use an elevator over the tried and true stairs in combat?

Also, under normal, hostile circumstances, a Marine fireteam would traverse the "fatal funnel", as they would refer to a set of stairs, with eyes above and below. True 360 degree security, in other words, was enforced. However, this time there were no Islamic radicals to be wary for, so hurrying was a good idea.

When they reached the third floor, guards, including the one that punched Hunter square in the face, drew their Glock 17s on the audio cue of the rattling gear of the Marines. Intruders always seemed to freeze at the sight of a gun, they found through several combined years of service and a couple action movies, even if the intruder had a gun themselves. They were about a second too slow this time, however, as Larsen and Patterson turned the landing and pointed their M16s at the guards' chests. "We're Marines! Drop your weapons NOW!"

_And this is why I hate the night shift!_ one of the guards—the guy who nailed Hunter—thought. Green eyes, a not-so-well-built body, brown hair and a goatee concealed not only a fighter, but a knowledgable mind as well. In the interest of saving all of those things, he and his partner lowered their pistols and let the Marines past. There was no need to question what they were doing; when he saw the soldiers climb the last flight of stairs to the fourth floor, the brown-haired guard gained an idea of whom they were after. His suspicions were confirmed when he got a radio call from the front desk: "Marty, Jason, you read me? Get down to the entrance, the Marines are collecting the Dragons!"

"10-4." [5]

Larsen's arrival at the fourth floor came not a moment too soon; their mission clock had just elapsed a total of three minutes, the expected time taken to reach this point. From here, Larsen had his squad wait by the stairs while he went to get the Dragons' attention.

Small problem; the stairs actually led up to the farthest left end of the floor-What he thought was 401 was actually 421. What he was looking for was located_ alllllll _the way to his right, but was that really a problem for him, a United States Marine? Heck no! He broke into a sprint for about two seconds, slowing down and turning around once he passed room 406, backpedaling towards his objective. That was, if he didn't bump into something first...

Ice cubes had become quite the favorite oddity with the young Flame. Just pop one in your mouth and feel its obscenely cold grace melt into perfectly ingestible water. He took one from a nearby dispenser now, knowing it would be his last for a while... If at all. Spyro and Cynder were never amused, but had often joked that they were the solution they had been looking for to help his snarky throat.

Placing the brittle-as-all-hell cube in his mouth, he turned around about ninety degrees...

...To come face to back with Lance Corporal Larsen, who quickly backpedaled into his teenage Dragon body. Flame reeled back a few inches, spitting out the ice cube in his mouth (which reached an undignified, shattered end on the carpeted floor), but Larsen quickly turned around and leapt onto his back, releasing his M16A4 (which was on a sling around his right shoulder) and pulling out his standard issue M9 sidearm, pointing it at the maroon Dragon. He sighed as he realized who he was aiming at. "Goddammit, Flame, you scared the living shit outta me!" he exclaimed as he helped himself off the carpeted floor.

"I was about to say the same thing!" Flame cried in shock.

Cynder and Spyro were too busy recovering from their own shock of seeing the Lance Corporal to _say _anything at first, but quickly cleared their throats and greeted the Lance Corporal with all their due respect. Unfortunately, the Marine non-commissioned officer, or NCO, was in no mood for small talk. "Here's the deal. We're operating under the cover of a raid against homegrown terrorists. I don't want you asking questions; Just keep your head down and out of sight, act like you were one of those arrested, and the civilians won't be asking questions either."

The Dragons quickly and understandably obeyed, falling in line behind Larsen. On the way back to the stairs, a pair of Marines breached the entrance to a nearby room and fired two shots into it. It turned out the only reason this was green-lit as a cover operation was because there were also reports of suspected terrorists occupying a room in the building. After learning from a "reliable source", i.e Vertas, that having Dragons share a confined space with a criminal was a bad idea, however, the brass decided to let them go for now. The Marines on the fourth floor had actually gone into a room that didn't have anyone in it, and the first round in each of their 30-round STANAG [6] magazines was a blank; the sound and flash of gunfire was enough to make it sound real.

The squad leader's right hand immediately returned to his ear after the shots were fired. "Alamo, Trident 22 Actual. Packages are secure, guns are talkin' blanks. Preparing for evac, over." The Dragons couldn't hear who was on the other end of the line—or what a lot of the transmission actually meant—but here's a dissection that actually _won't_ go into the footnotes section of the chapter for once! Trident 2 is the callsign of the platoon, which is also the number two platoon of Trident company. The two after _that_ refers to squad two of platoon two—Bravo Team. "Actual" means the speaker is the squad leader, and not just a squad member. Individual soldiers identify themselves through, using Nichols, the number six of Bravo Team, as an example, "Trident 22-6".

"Package" refers to an objective that is a person or object of interest, and the so-called "talkin' guns" are an actual Marine suppression tactic that supports squad coordination. Here, though, in an purpose-made inaccuracy, it refers to the fake discharge of weapons into rooms filled with "terrorists." You got that? Okay, good.

As Marines emerged from their assigned breaches, Flame spotted a baggage cart resting next to one of the rooms, similar to the one they arrived in two nights before. Considering the elevator they took to get up here was almost right next to it, this gave him an idea. He leapt up on the cart and plopped his tail down on the semi-large tray at the bottom, looking not unlike a large dog begging for attention if you were to look at him—except said dog would have maroon scales and breathed unholy amounts of fire.

Private Sigmund was first to notice the Corporal's strange position. "Uh... Flame, what are you doing?" he asked.

Flame gestured to the elevator, not speaking a word. "Oh boy. Hey, Flame, remember the last time you tried that? You practically scared off an entire family!" He took a deep breath, clearing his thoughts. "Man, you're lucky noone got video of you or we wouldn't be speaking right now. Although, considering we _did _scare everyone off already..."

Flame, still wordless, quickly nodded with his eyes shut three times as if to channel a certain tiny _Saurolophus _from a late-1980's animated film.This caused Sigmund to breathe once out of his nose as he made his decision. "Alright," he agreed, pressing the down button on the elevator's exterior control panel as he did so, "in you go." He wheeled Flame into the elevator and selected the ground floor as the destination for him, quickly pulling his arm out so the sliding door didn't crush it.

"Thank you." was all Flame said as the doors slid shut and the elevator began its steady descent. All Sigmund did in response was keep on walking...

It took Larsen a few minutes, and about two floors down the stairwell, to notice something different about the Dragons. The colors of their scales seemed brighter, more reflective than the last time he saw them. All it took was a long glare for Cynder to immediately answer "It's scale polish. Basic Draconic beauty product."

"Not exactly a beauty product, per se, but it makes you shinier than a golden nugget, that's for sure!" Spyro chimed in, much to Cynder's chagrin. The soon-to-be MARSOC operators surpressed their own groans; the comparison wasn't bad, but where they were going, that was the exact opposite of what they needed. They could also understand if the Dragons wanted to make a good impression on Major General Huggins (And yes, the 82nd Airborne's CO _is _named that!), but again, he wasn't a big fan of shiny objects or men, for that matter.

Waiting at the bottom of the stairs were the two security guards from the third floor—Marty and Jason—as well as Faust and Nichols. The Marines, expecting Spyro and Cynder to come down first, had brought an Altec Lansing inMotion speaker system into the lobby, on which was mounted a fourth generation Apple iPod touch belonging to Faust. Aside from the usual Marine fare for music preference (Poets of the Fall, Slipknot, Disturbed, Eminem, stuff like that) he had also bought—and uploaded- Earth's version of the Bridal March from the built-in iTunes store, subtracting some figurative points from his manhood. _Ninety-nine cents for a cheap thrill_, the Private First Class thought. _Just hope it lasts long enough to hold it right over their heads!_

Just as his mind began to turn to other things, he heard footsteps coming down the hotel's stairwell. "Here they come. Hey, new guy! Turn on the music, will ya?" he snapped to the rookie Marine. Nichols silently obliged and darted for the iPod, unlocking it and inputting the passcode (2284) before jabbing at the 'play' symbol just above the volume control.

Just as the primary Marine contingent was about to round the final landing to the ground floor, suspicious-sounding bars of music began to intrude their ears. Before Spyro and Cynder could open their mouths to inquire about the strange song, Larsen quickly picked up on the song being played—and he didn't like the sound of it. "Oh dear God, no!" Larsen exclaimed, following loud chuckles from the rest of the squad.

"What is it?" Spyro quizzically inquired in typical fashion for him.

Larsen couldn't break the news to them just yet—he didn't know _how_ to—but instead simply asked "You didn't tell anyone else you two were married, did you?" He had on a harsh, almost compromising facial expression.

This time, it was Cynder's turn to shrink to an unassuming presence, hanging her head in shame. "Well... Yes. Why do you ask?"

Larsen shook his head. He'd seen this coming. "I don't know what it's like for you back home, but that's _**our **_version of the _Bridal March_!" He groaned in front of the Dragons for the first time. "I'll explain later, but right now I gotta chew those idiots out."

In the meantime, the two mates had already linked their tails in order to make it appear they were amused as they rounded the landing, but as they came down the steps, Larsen made his move, pulling out his M9 and pointing it at the two Marines he'd left behind. "Turn off the music... NOW." he commanded.

For Flame, who had just gotten out of the elevator, dragging the baggage cart behind him with his tail, he'd stumbled into quite the awkward moment. One, there was a Marine with a gun pointing it at two other Marines. Two, said "other Marines" were playing a strange song that had somehow caused Spyro and Cynder to link tails in a loving way. Finally, number three, there was himself pulling a heavy object into the lobby. Each and every object in this scene was an ingredient in the recipe for disaster, and he knew it. All it would take was a nudge in the _wrong_ direction from any of the parties involved.

Thankfully, what was once DEFCON 2 [7] went back up to DEFCON 5 when the threatened Marines went to turn off the music. Larsen holstered his pistol, Flame let go of the baggage cart... And, after a few seconds of awkwardness, Spyro and Cynder delinked their tails, the latter letting out a tiny giggle.

"Don't _**make**_ me pull this out on you again." Larsen cautioned. He turned back to the Dragons. "Alright, do whatever you need to do; empty your bladders, relieve yourself, whatever your body says needs to be done before we leave, 'cause it's five hours to Fort Bragg from here." The Dragons immediately disappeared into the nearby restrooms, though they could have easily done so before the armored truck showed up, while Nichols switched the song to something a little less compromising while they waited.

Now, I'm not actually gonna go INTO the bathrooms, as that would lead to copious amounts of terrible bathroom humor, so let me just say this; some had to 'go', some didn't. They emerged from the bathrooms roughly two minutes later.

**BGM: Children of the Elder God**

** Old Gods of Asgard (Poets of the Fall)**

** In The Valley of My Shadow (_Alan Wake_ Official Soundtrack)**

The song Nichols had chosen was relatively short, at about three minutes and thirty-five seconds; just long enough for the Dragons to finish their business and move on. When they did get out, the song had just transitioned into its obligatory solo. "There you are," Faust greeted the Dragons. "We're gettin' outta here. Just follow the Lance Corporal's lead, and you'll do fine."

"Right! Dragons, get behind us and hang your heads as if you're embarrassed. Walk slowly, like you've been shackled to one another. Marty and Jason, get out by the front door. Rest of you, on me. Oorah? [8]" Larsen looked around to make sure everyone heard him, which they did. "Alright." Once again, he put his right hand up to his right ear. "Alamo, this is Trident 22 Actual. We're coming out; prepare to receive packages, out."

The average nighttime temperature in Washington D.C during the month of September is about 51 degrees Fahrenheit to humans. Captain Hunter, an Auroran from the Valley of Avalar, knew that temperature meaned so little to his world that it was only described in words, never numbers—words like freezing, cold, chilly, warm, hot, blazing and boiling, just to name a few, so the temperature to him that night as he searched for a suitable vantage point to observe the hotel from would be best described as "slightly chilly." Thankfully, a fur coat, which he often thanked Aurora for blessing him and his race with, worked wonders in these types of enviroments, even if he still wore clothes to hide his... unmentionables.

He was hard-pressed to find a suitable tree; the armored truck had already arrived when he got there, which meant the Dragons would soon be leaving. This was also the only chance he would get to nail the guard who'd punched him in the face earlier in the morning and test Flame's theory—which would seem rather unlikely if he were spotted or failed to find a tree in time. None of the trees he considered looked strong enough to take his weight; those that did would likely reveal his position before he got a chance to fire. He was running out of options.

That was, of course, until he _did _find such a suitable tree. Located on the right side of the St. John's Episcopal Church's door if viewed from the hotel, this tree was also the last decently sized tree on the block, unless one counts the trees on the other side of the street, which were incredibly tiny.

Hunter knew he didn't have much of a choice, sighing as he gazed upon the brown trunk and green leaves, just like the ones he saw back home, except they grew much taller on average. "It doesn't look like they're going to get any taller," he reasoned. "It looks as if this will have to do." He dared not unsheath his claws to climb it as he felt the marks it would leave behind would reveal his identity, so he instead gripped the trunk with both his arms and legs and proceeded to shimmy up it until he reached the branches.

Arguably, the hardest part of climbing any tree is either getting past or climbing up the branches. Some of them might not support the weight of the climber and break, whereas others are so skinny that they're flexible, in a way. Hunter kept this in mind as he pulled himself up to the sturdiest branch he could find. It was tough going, but he finally planted a foot on his destination branch, which was weighed down just a little bit.

Looking around, he could notice the leaves on the trees changing color; again, it felt similar to the trees back home. Unfortunately, this meant they got a lot of eyes looking at them for their "purtieness", as human slang would have it. _Prowlus might have blended in well with this one, _he thought. _I'm not sure about myself. _Again, he was very careful in his positioning on this tiny branch. One wrong move and gravity would take over to either force a rapid return to the ground or flatout injure, or even _kill _him.

To solve this problem, he needed to remain perfectly still and use his tail, known to be a center of balance for those animals that have them attached to their butts, to keep his footing. When he reached for his bow, he moved his arms carefully so as to not upset his own balance. Soon before long, Hunter was ready to fire; though his arrow was loaded, he kept the bowstring drawn forward so he didn't accidentally launch it.

The next thing he knew, two hotel guards emerged from the front door, taking positions right next to it. He could identify the guard who punched him in the face (Marty) on the right hand side of the door from this tree, but didn't risk firing at him just yet; he'd be caught if an arrow soared across the night while their attention was focused on the armored truck. As soon as the guards came out of the hotel, two Marines hopped out of the cabin of the truck, who he didn't recognize. This was Sergeant Logan and Corporal Griffin, his eventual successor.

A couple seconds later, the doors of the hotel swung open again. This time, four Marines walked out, three Dragons—Spyro, Cynder, and Flame—in tow. Their heads were hung as if in shame, walking as if they'd been handcuffed—or shackled. It was plain to see for Hunter, however, that they had not been restrained in any way. The other two soldiers were behind them, pointing their M16A4 rifles at their backs.

Anger would have torn at Hunter's mind if not for the simple facts that A) DARPA had told him that it would appear like they'd been captured and/or betrayed by the Marines, and B) the Dragons had not been restrained. He was tempted to fire at the security guard now, but his brain suppressed the thought, thinking it to attract just as much attention as if he had shot him when he came out of the hotel. In the end, he mentally compromised; he would raise his bow and set it up for a shot, but he would not fire until the Dragons departed.

For Hunter, all time seemed to come to a standstill as he pondered the hypothetical situations of his arrow from this position. The wind was calm that night, and the distance was short enough as it was, but his biggest worry came from elevation and a new, alien factor; gravity. Whereas a bullet, when fired, would eventually suffer from what is known as "bullet drop" at longer ranges, forcing the shooter to compensate for the distance to his target by aiming above it, archers, and, by extension, the humble arrow, have to compensate for it much more than a sniper would, thanks to the arrow's much slower velocity. Hunter knew most of the ins and outs of archery on his world, but this was Earth. He knew very little about the planet, so he couldn't assume the force of gravity was the same as it was back home. It could be stronger, or weaker; he didn't know. His idea of compensation was to aim the bow directly at the guard, hoping for the best.

His senses snapped back to the real world just as one of the Marines from the truck appeared to have smashed Spyro into the bay at the rear of the truck with the butt of his rifle before closing the doors on him. He watched the Marine run back to the left side of the cabin, open the door, and get in. The engine started soonthereafter. The guard on the left hand side of the hotel's entrance also began to step forward, giving Hunter the opening he needed. Drawing back the bowstring as far as it would go, he watched the truck leave before silently muttering to himself "_Razgriz t'em opasa fe ya!" -_Runic for the prayer "Razgriz have mercy on you!"-before letting it fly.

Marty had expressed quite a bit of surprise at the fact that he'd been entrusted with the protection of three certain scaled creatures. Having been with the Spyro series since the very beginning in 1998, fourteen years ago, he'd followed the progression of the character all the way up to the release of _Skylanders_, which he felt obligated to buy for his own young kids. Frankly, it was all tearing a big hole in his wallet, despite having bought at least half of all Skylanders available at the time. _Skylanders Giants_, which saw the separation, or possible merging, of the Spyro and Skylanders IPs, threatened to make that hole even larger. He sighed. The new Legend of Spyro game, _The Awakening_, would change all that, he hoped. After all, he hadn't really liked Spyro and Cynder's appearances in Skylanders.

Actually getting to see and meet these Dragons had greatly increased his morale. Too bad he, having been a witness to all this, wasn't allowed to tell anyone he actually saw them, since he was still going to be governed under the Official Secrets Act. He loathed the idea, but playing along was the only option, seeing as he was dealing with the CIA and DARPA here.

And now, as he watched the International 4000 depart from the hotel, it almost felt like life was going to get back to normal, at least for a little while. After an hour or so, he was going to clock out and head back home, get some rest. The early shift end time was a special favor from the manager for helping him out during the Dragons' short stay, and he was definitely going to take advantage of it first chance he got. His partner, Jason, went to watch the truck leave from a better angle while he waited for it to completely leave his field of vision before heading back inside.

Unfortunately, that was when Hunter made his move.

Suddenly, a sound almost akin to that of a whistle flew into his ears. Before he could react, something large and pointed hit him in the side of his neck, almost right on his jugular vein, penetrating into his throat. He couldn't cry out even if he wanted to; with his throat nice and punctured, the only sound he could make was a groan as he clutched at the arrow in his neck, sprawling to the concrete below. His last thoughts demonstrated shock that Hunter would so mercilessly take his life like that, even after he had dealt a blow to him earlier that day, before everything went dark.

Jason had heard the sound too, quickly recognizing it as that of an arrow whizzing past his head. It wasn't like the sound of a bullet whizzing past your skull—that sounds more like a crack than all else—but it still caused an instinctual reaction to turn around and see who or what it hit. This reaction was delayed for a couple seconds, but, to his horror, this led to the discovery of Marty laid out like a rug, useless except as floor dressing.

_**"MARTY!" **_Jason shouted, rushing over to his body. A small pool of blood had formed next to his neck, a nice signification that the arteries and veins in the neck handle the largest amount of human blood at any given time. But, then again, that should be simple anatomy. The sprawled out body gave some indication as to what had happened to him; the man was dead, or close to it.

**BGM: In the Air Tonight**

** Phil Collins**

** Face Value**

_ Cue sorrowful death scene._

_I can feel it comin' in the air toni-_

***Record scratch!***

"Okay, can we cut the sad, mournful crap? This is gettin' _ridiculous_ already!" Jason exclaimed, glancing right at my audience; that is to say, you.

Oh right, sorry. Thought the music was appropriate.

"Well, it isn't! Not to me, anyway."

**We apologize for these difficulties, and now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.**

Jason cursed loudly. The truck had already departed his view, and, for all he knew, was already a quarter of the way to the George Washington University Hospital on 900 23rd Street. This didn't look good. "Jack, you read me? Marty is down. Call 911 at once!" he called into his radio. He hadn't the slightest clue how to conduct first aid. As far as he knew, that kind of stuff just wasn't in the job description. Now he wished he'd taken that Lifesaver class.

What he hadn't seen was a yellow-furred Auroran Cheetah with a bow and quiver hopping down from a nearby tree and scurrying off into the night, his thirst for revenge satisified...

***SMACK!***

Spyro lurched backwards after being socked in the head with the butt of a rifle. He hadn't been told this was all part of the act; but sometimes a little bit of pain can get a point across. He groaned at the very thought of it. "Jeez, tough crowd." he grimaced. His head was too focused on the pain to focus on anything else, so it only felt like five seconds before the truck started moving again.

He was now sharing this compartment with six fellow Marines and two other Dragons, and let me tell you, even for a Dragon this is a little too cramped. He could still move around, but he had to be careful not to bump into anybody.

The Purple Dragon could really do nothing at the time except plant his purple tail on one of the benches on either side of the compartment and wait for instructions, which came pretty quickly.

"Alright, Dragons, listen up." The Dragons recognized the voice, coming from an intercom in the truck, as that of Sergeant Logan's. "We're going to pick up Vertas from the George Washington University Hospital on 900 23rd Street first. Your friends—Hunter, Strigon and Galm—didn't want to take him home with them, so he's coming with us to Fort Bragg."

Flame became quite concerned when he heard this news. "He isn't going to be subject to all this training we're supposed to be receiving, will he?" he asked.

"Well... Yes and no," Logan answered. "He won't be going into the Airborne itself, but he'll be staying with you throughout."

_Why do I have another bad feeling about this 'Airborne' division? _Cynder thought.

"Well, that's reassuring." Spyro answered. As the truck turned to the left, his mind decided to divulge its feeling of hunger; the Dragons had decided not to have dinner that night, and were quickly regretting their decision. "To tell you the truth, we didn't exactly have anything to eat for dinner. We thought we could get away with one skipped meal, and..." His stomach growled as he explained. "...And it just came back to haunt us."

Larsen had expected this. "Well, tell you what... I bought some energy bars for ya. They're not like the stuff you're used to eating, but it should do the trick for a couple hours," he explained, pulling out some PowerBars- an energy bar meant for athletes and the like. "I also brought some Five-Hour Energy if you guys need it."

Since Dragons do not have any thumbs, trying to grip anything with their claws normally gets them nowhere. Therefore, these Dragons came up with the brilliant solution of grabbing the energy bars with their tails and eating them that way, as scale-dirtying as that sounds. They completely rejected the tiny energy drink, though; Flame and Cynder had tried some, and didn't exactly enjoy the taste of it.

So, there they were, happily nomming on what would technically qualify as a candy bar. If that's not enough of an alien image for ya at this time, I don't know what _is_.

Three minutes later, the truck coasted to a stop about a block away from the George Washington University Hospital. It opened on August 23rd, 2002, meaning the hospital itself is about a decade old. Housing 371 patient beds in a 400,000 square foot building, it's one of the largest, and most frequently used, hospitals in the Washington D.C area. Strangely, just like the Hay-Adams, it had a patient labeled "top secret" by the United States government interred somewhere in the building, under the protection of Marines assigned to the Marine Barracks on 8th and I. Tonight, the Marines responsible for putting him in there in the first place were coming to collect him.

Once again, Bravo Team lined up in two columns. Here, Larsen outlined their objectives for the hospital. "Okay guys, here's the plan. We aren't expecting the hospital to be full of patients right now, so we can just stroll in, ask the person working the front desk about where our furry friend's staying, grab the wolf and get out. Should be pretty simple, unless people start asking questions. In that case, we leave through the loading bay."

The Dragons stood up and prepared to follow the Marines out. "_**No, no, no**__**!**_ Stay here, Dragons! There's civilians in there, and if they see you, trust me, they're gonna _freak_. Just stay here and wait, we'll get him out for ya."

Reluctantly, the Dragons sat back down on the benches, defeated; Cynder first, Spyro second, Flame third.

"Alright Bravo Team, move 'em out!" The rear doors opened once more, and Larsen's Marines leapt out into the moonlight. This time, however, we're not gonna follow them out.

The Dragons could do nothing but watch the Marines, flashlights slicing into the night, walk towards the hospital. In a couple of minutes, they strolled into the lobby, as an ambulance arrived at the rear end of the building to drop off an injured patient.

Since there was really nothing to watch after the humans disappeared into the hospital, Spyro and Cynder took the time to finish up their PowerBars before opening up the rear doors and ditching the wrappers. For some reason, they really liked the strange taste. Probably had something to do with the peanut butter filling.

After about five minutes, Flame noticed seven silhouettes, and six flashlights, emerging from the front door of the University Hospital. As they got closer, he could recognize his partner Vertas, looking much healthier than when he last saw him. He also noticed he was wearing human clothes; that is to say, a white T-shirt and shorts. The wolf also wore an Auroran knapsack, which Cynder could immediately recognize as her old knapsack from Warfang. Apparently, Galm had also left a gift for his wounded man, too.

Strangely, the Marines allowed Vertas to hop in the rear compartment before they did. "Better get comfortable, Vert. It's all you're gonna get for a while," the Dragons heard Patterson say as he climbed in.

Vertas Fasran cautiously sat down on the bench next to his old friend Flame, being careful not to damage his stitches. He took being wounded and going into surgery quite well, considering he'd almost been killed. "Hey Flame. Long time, no see, eh pal?" he greeted Flame.

"Sure, if two days is a long time." the maroon Dragon sighed. "How was the hospital? Any better than the ol' infirmary back home?"

"Like you wouldn't believe. The place had it all; skilled surgeons, great food, and, probably best of all, nurses you could call _at any time_!" Vertas gushed over his temporary home like it was the greatest thing in the world. "Granted, interspecies romance is kinda looked down upon, but when all you can do for the better part of a day is lie in a hospital bed and watch what these guys call "television", I couldn't care less."

"You and me both, brother. We didn't exactly leave our hotel room, but when we _did_, it was usually under the protection of _these_ six jarheads," he replied, glaring at the Marines taking up the rest of the truck's space.

Vertas shrugged off most of the offense he'd taken regarding Larsen's indiscriminate shooting of him two days before. "Don't worry. He apologized to me first chance he got... After I apologized to _him _ for punching him in the face."

"Sounds like you two had a fun time when you saw each other again," Flame snarked.

"Actually, no; he was pretty cool about it. At least, from what I can remember; this is before I went in for surgery to get his bullets out of my system."

"Fair enough, all the same."

The young Wolf private was trying to relax when he caught Cynder eyeing the knapsack he wore. "Uh... This thing's _yours_, isn't it?"

The black Dragoness quickly nodded. "I'd recognize that scratch on the strap anywhere. Did Galm give it to you?"

Vertas nodded as he took it off and handed it to her. "Galm was actually supposed to give me the one with all the scale polish and stuff like that, but I kinda figured something went wrong when I saw how... shiny... you were." Spyro had actually taken to wearing that knapsack after everything inside of it was disposed of. He planned to give it back when he next saw the Sergeant, which was likely going to be after everything was said and done over in China. Of course, the thing was going to be_ filled_ with souvenirs; that's just a given.

Inside her old knapsack were basic Draconic survival goods; food rations, Liquid Fire, and some medical tools (_"Give to Flame and Vertas"_, they were labeled). However, hidden among all _that_ junk were two brand new journals marked with the year 3369, meant to chronicle their time on Earth. The Sergeant had also written a message on the inside cover, basically saying that they should probably keep these out of prying eyes once they're back home safe; just because they're protected by the Auroran Espionage Protection Act of 3357 doesn't mean they can be left out in the open in their apartment.

She decided to distribute the journals _after_ they got to Fort Bragg. There was still some puzzling to do over how to make two journals work among three Dragons, and she preferred to think about it once they had a place to stay over there. At that moment, the truck finally got moving, this time to its real destination, after everyone was confirmed to be settled in the rear compartment. _From one fortress to another, _Flame thought. _Look out, army of the United States, 'cause things are about to get heated!_

_**Blackhammer V2.5**_

_Opening file: _

**BGM: Roar**

** Treat**

** Coup de Grace**

_File opened_

A map of the United States pops up on screen. A crosshair appears in the center of the map, trying to home in on the armored truck's homing beacon. It quickly highlights the halfway point of their journey from D.C to Fort Bragg.

_Dragons located: I-95 S, heading south at 35 MPH_

We now zoom in on the armored truck as it drives through the North Carolina countryside as the morning sun crests over the horizon. The BGM starts from a solo as we capture several action shots of the truck racing towards its destination of Fort Bragg. That should give you an idea about where to place that video slider on YouTube for maximum cinematic effect.

_Ready to roar, ready or not_

_Ready to give it all I've got_

_Gotta live to win, get up, get out, get even_

_Ready to roar, ready or not_

_Ready to give it one more shot_

_Let the game begin, need something to believe in_

_Ready to roar!_

_READY TO ROAR!_

"Okay Dragons, welcome to your new home; at least for a week or two!" Sergeant Logan exclaimed.

Flame groaned as they passed the welcome sign into the military town. "Finally, some decent rest. My tail is _killin' _me!"

Laughter ensued. "We have a saying here in the Marine Corps, Flame; no pain, no gain!" Faust joked.

"Oh, is that why they gave _you _the big gun?" Flame snarked.

"Just shut up, Flame." Cynder quickly admonished. The camera then slowly pans towards that welcome sign, which read:

**Fort Bragg**

**Home of**

**The Airborne**

**and**

**Special Operations Forces**

***Night vision goggles switching on***

**End of Chapter 6**

**Footnotes**

**[1]** Marine Special Operations Regiment: A three-battalion regiment representing all of MARSOC's operators. Each battalion has four companies with four fifteen-man Marine Special Operations teams in each, which, if you do the necessary math, translates into 144 separate teams and 2,160 MARSOC operators.

**[2]** Faust referring to Larsen as a "Lance Corporal": In the USMC, it's actually disrespectful to call a lance corporal a "corporal". Hence, it is protocol to call a lance corporal by his full rank.

**[3] **ACOG: **A**dvanced **C**ombat **O**ptical **G**unsight. The model used by the Marine Corps is the Trijicon TA31RCO ACOG, a 4x magnification scope. Games like Call of Duty incorrectly portray the Trijicon as a 2.4x magnification scope—likely for game balance, as a 4x scope is actually quite similar to the sniper rifle default of 4.8x magnification, not to mention the recoil when fired full-auto would be horrendous.

**[4] **"Breaching, breaching!": Brevity call signifying to friendlies in the building that a friendly squad have breached a locked door, warning any friendlies behind said door to get the hell out of the way lest they become victims of friendly fire. (Did I use too much of the word "friendly" for ya?) Also functions as a general brevity call that a breach maneuver is underway.

**[5]** "10-4.": 10-4 means "message received," or "yes sir". but I think you know that already. It's here just in case. (FYI, this is only used by police and security forces. The military uses the word "copy" to denote that a message has been received, and "roger" to say "yes sir". You'll hear military personnel say "How copy?" to ask if their intended recipent "got all that".)

**[6] **STANAG: **STAN**dardization **AG**reement. NATO utilizes this to set up procedures, processes, terms and conditions for common military or technical procedures or equipment between members of the alliance. STANAG magazines are designed to be used by virtually any NATO rifle, or so I believe, so, say, a French FAMAS' 30-round box mag could be used by an American M4A1 should ammo for the M4 run dry, since both rifles fire the same cartridge.

**[7]** DEFCON: **DEF**ense readiness **CON**dition. It's an alert posture used by the United States armed forces, denoting to states of hostilities and war. Right now, the United States is sitting rather comfortably at DEFCON 4, which is considered "above normal" readiness. DEFCON 2 is the next step to war, and represents the tipping point. One screwup or mishap here, and DEFCON 1 is triggered, which means America and another country have entered a state of war. Nuclear weapons are authorized here, but still require unlock codes from higher authority. DEFCON 5 is relative peacetime. The highest DEFCON level SAC, or Strategic Air Command, headquartered in Offult Air Force Base in Nebraska, has ever reached was DEFCON 2 during the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962.

**[8] **"Oorah?": The Marines' version of "hooah", which in turn is said to have stemmed from the acronym HUAA: **H**eard, **U**nderstood, **A**nd **A**ccepted, used by the Army. Noone actually knows where these grunts came from; each branch of the American military has its own theory, each contradicting the other, so noone has any proof. This is probably something we'll _never _figure out.

Author's Note: Okay, I finally got this done. I haven't really been keeping up with that New Year's Resolution, have I? Ah well, comes with the territory. You got schoolwork to do, ya do that first, forget about writing. Again, this is surprisingly longer than I had anticipated; I think you'll find that it's longer than even my previous WMD chapter. This is the first thing I've put up in _months,_ so forgive me if things feel a little rushed, okay? Just read and review, hope you enjoyed, and I'll see you all next time!


	9. Carnal Weapons PT 1

"_For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds.**"**- 2 Corinthians 10:4_

Let's start with a look back at Washington D.C. Plenty of things happened there, so let's make sure you're all up to speed.

**BGM: Late Goodbye**

** Poets of the Fall**

** Signs of Life**

_In our headlights, starin', bleak, beer cans, deer's eyes_

_On the asphalt underneath, our crushed plans, and my lies_

_Lonely street signs, power lines, they keep on flashin', flashin' by_

First, our four extraterrestrials entered the world through an EMP test gone wrong. Not horribly wrong, but, unknown to both the Dragons and the Marines that entered the room to take them out at the time, it somehow linked the EMP device to the Gate back in the Aurora Desert. Vertas got himself shot, but the Marines quickly made peace with the Dragon delegation.

_And we keep drivin' into the night_

_It's a late goodbye, such a late goodbye_

_And we keep drivin' into the night_

_It's a late goodbye_

The Dragons were then pressed into signing the British Official Secrets Act of 1989, officially rendering all of them secrets of the United States government. The reason why is quickly revealed later that night, when President Barack Obama himself informs them that they are going to be sent into the communist People's Republic of China to investigate claims that China is preparing to launch a counterattack in revenge for the death of one of their pilots at the hands of an American F/A-18E pilot, callsign Talon, and that they will be transferred to Fort Bragg, North Carolina in just two days.

_Your breath, hot upon my cheek_

_And we crossed that line_

_You made me strong when I was feelin' weak, and we crossed, that one time_

_Screamin' stop signs, starin' wild eyes, they keep on flashin', flashin' by_

Two days later, the Dragons are visited by old Auroran allies; Hunter, Sergeant Galm, and the newly rescued Major Strigon in their room at the Hay-Adams Hotel. Hunter had been socked in the face by a security guard named Marty just a couple minutes beforehand, causing Flame to suggest a violent course of action just before the Aurorans leave. The same Marines from earlier arrive to take them to Fort Bragg, and, barring a few hijinks inside, emerge without a hitch; that is, if one doesn't count Marty, a _Spyro_ fan, taking an arrow to his neck a 'hitch'. (Yeah, I know, I'm rubbing it in...)

*thuing-pfft*

_And we keep drivin' into the night_

_It's a late goodbye, such a late goodbye_

_And we keep drivin' into the night_

_It's a late goodbye_

_***Third verse is replaced by an instrumental***_

The Dragons began their drive into the night by picking up a newly recovered Vertas from the George Washington University Hospital. The Marines had warmed up to the 'furry' in the span of just two days, even going as far as to let him climb into the rear bay of the armored truck they were riding in before any of them. Now, _that's_ how you respect an extraterrestrial.

And now that you're all up to speed... At least, I hope... It's time for...

**Chapter 7**

**Carnal Weapons**

**Part 1**

_**September 26th, 2012 AD**_

_**Fort Bragg, North Carolina**_

_**Main complex parking lot, Normandy Drive**_

_**0647 hours, Eastern Time Zone**_

__Well, about that song that was just playin'... It turns out that's actually from an ambient source. Namely, Private Strickland's second-generation Microsoft Zune. The Zune was released in 2006 in response to the Apple iPod, which dominated the digital music player industry. Roughly two million Zunes were sold as of May 2008, compared to the iPod's 300,000,000. That's pretty bad in comparison, but then again, the iPhone, released in June 2007, may have had something to do with the Zune's technical commercial failure.

Strickland was, for all intents and purposes, a security guard; he's supposed to check any cars passing in and out of the main complex. (In fact, he was assigned to the 16th Military Police Brigade.) "Late Goodbye" was playing in his earbuds, though he's turned it up so loud we can hear it from pretty close by. He never liked the early hours; sure, the sunrise is beautiful, but do you have to watch it every freakin' day until work picked up? That's why you bring a Zune in the morning.

He definitely had the song to thank for ending at the right time. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted what appeared to be a black armored truck—possibly an old retired SWAT van. What business did it have here, though? It wasn't unusual to see armored trucks in Fort Bragg, it being a military town, but one, it definitely had no permission to be there, and two, from all the James Bond movies and conspiracy theories he'd seen and heard, black was _not _the color you wanted to see on a vehicle parked without authorization in government property; too suspicious.

The color of the truck left him no choice; the young Private had to call it in to control. He removed his earbuds and activated his radio. "Dispatch, this is Strickland. I've got an armored car out by Normandy Drive; it's black and it looks suspicious, over."

"10-4 Strickland. We were just about to contact you about that. It's been sitting there since about 0600, and we were getting worried, over."

"How so, over?"

"Remember that soldier from Fort Bragg that disappeared back in April? Turned out she was raped and murdered by that very sex offender that drove her home that night."

"Yeah, Private First Class Bordeaux, wasn't it? Not sure if that's relevant to the truck, over."

"That's enough about that, anyway. Can you go investigate? Over."

"10-4 dispatch. Out." Strickland suddenly grew nervous; he'd been right about the truck being suspicious. "Shit!" he swore underneath his breath. "Why can't it be someone else?"

This wasn't the first time a security guard had questioned his orders here, but the orders he'd been given were still orders. He walked towards the truck as carefully as he dared; for all he knew there could have been terrorists inside, just waiting to gun him down. Then again, Fort Bragg soldiers were never portrayed as cowards; the Airborne and 7th Special Forces Group made sure of that.

Reaching the truck was no small feat in his mind, but at one point, he thought he saw what appeared to be the silhouette of a creature of some sort in the forest near his position out of the corner of his eye, but when he did a double-take in the creature's direction, it had vanished, as if it had melded into the very darkness itself. _You're just imagining things, Forrest. It's okay, the truck's just an abandoned car, that's all, _he tried to reassure himself, to not much avail.

As if by an act of God, he reached the van without any more apparent hallucinogenic episodes. He was by now close enough to identify the make of the truck, an International, but his orders weren't to identify make and model and report the license plate to control so the police department, of which there were three in the general area of Fort Bragg, could track it if it ever got back on the move. He was to investigate the truck, check for anything suspicious in its interior, and call for backup if things got out of hand. At this distance, he figured, it would probably kill him if it turned out to be a car bomb. No, he figured, a homegrown terrorist wouldn't go to all this trouble to blow up one Fort Bragg soldier. Maybe if he'd brought a team of soldiers with him, but most investigations like this were one-man affairs.

His memory did bring forward evidence to support the claim that he was being targeted; news had broken just about when he'd woken up that a security guard at the Hay-Adams Hotel up in Washington D.C had been murdered by an arrow from some unknown assailant. The fact that an old _arrow _had been used to kill the guard (whose name hadn't yet been released) instead of a bullet seemed to alarm him; it was only five hours from there to Fort Bragg, so maybe that creature he saw in the forest... No. It didn't look tall enough to carry a bow and arrow, but then again he never got a clear glimpse of it. He braced himself for the arrow he thought was coming right towards him...

Nothing. Not even a whistling sound. No pain at all. He opened his eyes to find that he hadn't even been shot at. Strickland was getting too paranoid. A single arrow wouldn't penetrate the kevlar armor he wore, unless it was to his neck or, worse, his knee. He dreaded the 'arrow to the knee' jokes he'd heard over the Internet ever since the release of _The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim_, and he'd hate to become the butt of more of them. _I used to be an MP, _or so the joke would go, _but then I took an arrow to the knee! _ It rhymed pretty well, actually; he just refused to see the irony of it.

He reached the rear of the truck shortly thereafter. Not only did this also enable him to identify it as an International 4000, but the doors he'd need to peek into the truck in one fell swoop were ominously closed. He figured the truck was empty; any Islamic radical an 82nd paratrooper knew would have burst out of it guns blazing by now, shouting the name of Allah at the top of his lungs. Was this reassuring? He didn't know; there was at least one movie he'd seen where a bad guy was waiting for someone to actually _open _the door before shooting him at point blank range. His _modus operandi _[1] follows: if there _was_ someone waiting behind those doors, he'd keep his M16A2 at the ready waiting to blast the bastard into oblivion. Looking surprised was the ultimate invitation to getting shot multiple times in the chest with a submachine gun.

Strickland counted to three in his head and threw the left hand door open, keeping his right hand on the trigger... Only to find noone there. He breathed a sigh of relief. Noone was in the truck after all! That would have still left the possibility of it being a bomb, however, but given that it hadn't blown up right away, he figured it would have been wired to detonate if he were to turn the ignition key... or if he'd got in through the driver's side. Car bombs detonate by tricky means these days.

In order to play it safe, he'd need to get in and out through these rear doors; opening either side door was essentially suicide. He'd decided to check the rear compartment first anyway, so he wasn't terribly inconveinenced. "Dispatch, Strickland here. No sign of potential hostiles. Now moving to check the interior of the parked truck, over."

He never bothered to listen for a response as he prepared to clamber into the rear compartment; while he didn't get one anyway, sometimes matters just happen to fall into one's hands, especially investigative matters.

But had he actually bothered to look behind him as he switched on his standard issue flashlight, he probably would have seen the suspicious looking black patch in the grass. Needless to say, this was a blunder no soldier should ever make. Why?

_Well..._ As he finally began to pull himself into the rear compartment, something grabbed him by the neck in an apparent chokehold. Despite all of his expectations, he'd been caught almost completely off guard; struggling was almost second-nature.

He fought to stay on his feet, but he was quickly pulled down onto his back, his weapon out of his reach on the ground. He couldn't fight back against his own assailant in this position; the hopeless thoughts in his head began to scream like a siren on overload. _No way. I saw it coming. I __**swear to**__**God,**_ _**I saw this coming!**__ I'm screwed. This is it... __**This is it!**_His eyes squeezed shut in preparation for the end...

...Wait a minute. He'd only been dragged down; he wasn't being choked to death at all. Whatever this intruder had done, it only kept him from resisting. As if to further reinforce this...

"Don't move a muscle." The voice was surprisingly feminine. Strange, yet humiliating at the same time. _Beaten by a girl? How...?_ His eyes snapped open in an attempt to determine what exactly had been bearing down on him. The first thing he noticed was what appeared to be the blade of a K-bar knife._ Okay, she's threatening to slash my throat, so what?_ It was what was attached to that knifeblade that got his attention past 'didn't know, don't care' on the attentiveness meter. There was a black, apparently organic tube coming from the blade and continuing around his neck. His eyes followed the full length of it all the way to where it disappeared from his vision. Finally looking up at the sky, he was able to trace that blade to a black, shiny... he couldn't guess what it was from his relatively horizontal position...lizard with green eyes, angled facial structure and four (or six) horns. And two crimson/magenta wings; it was a difference no average human being could tell.

"What in the hell...?" Strickland puzzled. He swore he'd seen this thing before. Recently, actually. In fact, this was the creature he saw on the way over here. How had she snuck up on him without any of the blockheads at dispatch noticing? This was going to be hard to explain...

Cynder the Dragoness glared downward at the human soldier beneath her feet, his neck held captive by her tail. _Larsen was right; Army guys __**were**__ easy to take down!_ This was a bad way to reveal herself to Bragg's soldier population, but given the circumstances, a little fun to unwind was of utmost importance. The element of Shadow had kept her out of the poor guy's sight all the way to the crucial moment; worked on plenty of Trolls and, regrettably, some Aurorans during her tenure as both 'Terror' and '_Former _Terror of the Skies.' He was just the first human victim, or would have been if circumstances had been different.

***Sound effect: _The Price is Right _failure horn***

His voice was undeniably still reeling with shock from her first attack as he tried to ask her who in the name of their God she was. She couldn't blame him; the Marines had almost the same reaction when they first saw her and the delegation she was with. The problem was trying to come up with an explanation; 'We've just come to see the commanding officer of the 82nd Airborne' probably wouldn't garner much of a positive response, not after _that _assault. What she came up with was this: "I don't want to kill you; we just wanted to see how you'd react."

"Who's... _we_?" the human struggled to answer. The name strip on the ballistic vest on his upper chest read 'Strickland'; she assumed this to be his surname from what Larsen had told them. In response, she gestured towards the forest with her right front leg, prompting Larsen's Marines to emerge from the forest, their weapons safely stowed away inside the armored truck. As if it were on cue, the Marines began laughing. "H-Hey! It's not funny, guys! This new... _pet _of yours scared the living-"

Cynder pressed her tailblade closer to the Army MP's neck. "I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you," she viciously threatened. "I'm not a pet; I'm a Dragon! Remember that!"

Strickland gulped. Suddenly, he was, once more, absolutely terrified. "As in... _**Fire-breathing dragon?**_" He couldn't keep the panic out of his voice.

"Not _all _Dragons breath fire, you idiot. Fortunately for you, I'm one of those Dragons who lack the ability to do so, though I do know two other Dragons who would happily roast you." She turned her head to the Marines and shouted "Spyro! Flame! You can come out now!" Strickland was left with a figurative question mark above his head as to who those two names belonged to, but he wasn't surprised in the slightest to see two more, boxy-structured dragons—one purple, the other maroon—emerging from the forest. He was, however, surprised that a strange spherical rock in the forest he hadn't noticed on his trek towards the truck appeared to actually _be _the purple dragon; it only made him more paranoid. _Okay, note to self; never, __**ever **__trust a boulder, _he thought.

Now, Spyro and Flame hadn't been too supportive of this little 'prank', given that all the branches of _this _military had wildly differing opinions of each other [2] from the background conversations the Marines had while they were touring D.C, but the serious tone of the idea of infiltrating China and their transfer to Fort Bragg required at least a decent dose of light-hearted tomfoolery to keep everything in balance. Still, Spyro wasn't amused. "No offense, Cynder, but that looked kind of excessive. Couldn't you have just said 'boo' and be done with it?"

Cynder shook her head. "Hey, he had a rifle. Remember what the Marines said; everyone in the military operates on a 'shoot first, ask questions later' mentality." Vertas, in case you're wondering where he's at, kept himself out of sight in case Cynder's victim didn't take kindly to furry beings on two legs.

The Private Cynder had stalked all the way to the armored truck's rear compartment wasn't amused by her comment. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! We operate by strict rules, ma'm. One, we need _clearance _before we can even fire a single bullet at someone, and that doesn't come very often. Two, we keep our weapons on 'safe' at all times outside of a combat zone; that means no matter how many times we pull the trigger, the gun won't fire a single shot. I betcha a hundred bucks that whatever they told you was just some Marine trash talk."

Cynder smirked. "Alright, that little rebuttal just got you back on your feet." She withdrew the blade from Strickland's neck and let him get his bearings again. Soon, he was back on his walkie-talkie, trying to contact his dispatch officer about what had just happened. Little did this dark-skinned Private know, his superiors knew of the Dragons and Marines beforehand. How, you ask? Well, let's just say Sergeant Logan filled them in on their armored truck's kinda-friendly alien payload.

"Dispatch, Strickland here. I've just run into some unidentified race of talking dragons. Repea-" His walkie-talkie was somehow able to pick up stifled laughter coming from Dispatch's staff. That's when he realized something was amiss. "What the hell are you _laughing_ at? One of them just frickin' _**jumped**_me and put me in a chokehold, for Christ's sake! You call that funny?"

None of the Marines or Dragons could hear the other side of the conversation, but they did know it caused him to double-take back at them a couple times. "Wait, wha-? You serious?...CIA and everything?...Okay, now you're just screwin' with me here. I mean, according to you, I'm dealing with dragons, with a capital D! Who told you this crap?...So, those Marines are their handlers? Gotcha...Okay...Okay, I'll let 'em know. Out."

When he'd finished talking with his Dispatch unit, he turned around to find six Marines, three Dragons, and one wolf-like bipedal creature he hadn't seen before, all waiting for directions and/or orders. He still couldn't believe he'd been played like a violin, but if they had to have a contact, they had to have a contact. Orders were orders. "Okay gentlemen, I've been told that the CO of the 82nd Airborne's been expecting your arrival. Head for the barracks around... _**I THINK**_ Cole Street? Sorry, I don't really know anything about where the Airborne bunkers down when they're not in Afghanistan; I'm just an MP. If it's not down there though, look for a soldier with a double A arm patch. If they're nice enough they'll point you in the rightdirection."

Sergeant Logan nodded. "Alright, thanks Private. Remember, not a word about this."

The MP scoffed. "With those things around, I'm not gonna spoil anything, jarhead."

"Good enough for me. Alright Marines, back in the truck! That means you and your scaly friends too, Vertas!"

_Sheesh, when did __**he**_ _get the promotion? These guys are scarier than they look! _the Wolf private thought as he leapt back into the compartment where they had been staying for the better part of six or seven hours. Soon before long, Logan put the armored truck in gear and continued its trek into the depths of this military installation.

**Later...**

_**Somewhere in Fort Bragg, just outside Major General Huggins' lodging**_

_**0753 hours, Eastern Time Zone**_

As things turned out, they _did _get lost. After the Marines realized the barracks Strickland had sent them to actually belonged to the 1st Training Brigade, they went to find a soldier who _was _in the 82nd, as he'd recommended, who, as expected, had taken them to the Airborne's little part of Bragg, and from there to where the commanding officer, a Major General [3] by the name of James Huggins (don't even _think_ about laughing) worked his ass off whenever he wasn't in Afghanistan. The Dragons were relaxing on the grassy ground, soaking up as many sunrays that touched their gold or crimson underbellies as they could get; this was to be one of the last times they would ever get a free moment to themselves on Earth. Vertas and the Marines, on the other hand, were waiting by the front door to the building, casually conversing with one another.

Let's listen in, shall we?

"Y'know, I actually _lost_ a Marine to the 82nd," Sergeant Logan sighed. "He wasn't KIA—y'know, killed in action or anything. This might sound pretty unbelievable, but he actually transferred across branches to the Army just to join up with them."

Vertas was intrigued. "Okay, that doesn't sound too preposterous. What happened?" the wolf asked.

"It was just about two months ago, after a combat exercise with the Royal Thai Army, the army of the country of Thailand down in southeast Asia. Private First Class Daniel Gunderson was my fireteam's secondary rifleman, filling a similar role to Patterson here. In the event that I'm either too severely wounded to carry out my duties as fireteam leader or I get myself killed, he would take permanent command of the fireteam, since he was the highest ranked soldier under my command... Provided, of course, he hadn't been rendered incapable of leading it as well."

"Y'see, after everything was said and done over there, he felt like he wasn't being given enough control over his subordinates. While he and I both led the fireteam in our own way, it's Sarge who decides the basic battle strategy for our squad. So he actually went to the Army and basically told them, 'Look, I've been leading this same Marine fireteam element for about a year now, I think it's time I got a little more responsibilty.' Of course, it wasn't as easy as that. Next thing I know, he's gotten an offer from Bragg; basically, 'You attend Airborne School and put in for a transfer to the 82nd, and we'll give you a promotion to Corporal.'

"I don't know if you work on this same system in your country, but each rank has what we call a 'pay grade' associated with it. Basically, as we climb up the ranks, we get more and more money added to our paycheck. Lance Corporal has a paygrade of E-3. The Army's equivalent rank in this grade is Private First Class, but those guys don't lead fireteams. We're more like Specialists, or the Army's first of two ranks with the paygrade of E-4. The second rank in _that_ grade is—you guessed it—Corporal, and it's also the first rank in the Army where you get to boss around other soldiers of lower rank, probably even get a squad or fireteam of your own."

Flame nodded in understanding, after a bit of a yawn. "We don't have a solid system of payment yet, since our primary currency is blue gems, which means we have to mine quite a bit to get them, but it's pretty similar to our current system."

"Alright, glad to see we're on the same page. Anyway, one day after we were all back at Camp Lejeune, our 'home base', if you can call it that, he comes up to me with his bags packed and says, 'Sir, I'm headed off to Fort Benning. I want to head over to the Airborne.' I say to him, 'Wait, you're just gonna leave the Marine Corps? The Airborne is Army turf!' He only had this to say to me: 'Larsen, we've been through a lot in the two years I've known you. I love being an element leader and all, but I want to move up in the world, y'know, get a fireteam of my own. The Army's probably the best place I can do that.' He left roughly about two weeks later, and we immediately got a replacement man in the form of Private Nichols, or as Faust and the rest of the squad call him, the 'new guy.' We haven't been in touch with him since then, but he's probably having a heck of a time with whatever squad the Army assigned him here." Larsen finished. "'Course, we're gonna have to let you off the leash once you're done talking with the General and you're settled with whatever unit he's going to place you in, but hey, maybe you'll find him."

Cynder had just opened her mouth to speak when the front door was opened from the inside by the Airborne soldier that had led them here, a Private Ramirez. "Sergeant Logan?" the Hispanic-looking man asked.

"What is it, Private? Is the General there?"

"Yes sir. He says he's expecting the Dragons and their furry friend in his office right now."

The Purple Dragon shook his head. _Leave it to the President to tell a commanding officer what he's dealing with ahead of time, _he thought. Chalking it up to precautionary measures, he followed his fellow Dragons back to their feet and began to follow Ramirez inside.

A figurative light bulb spawned above Larsen's head; the Visitors' meeting with Huggins would mark a transfer of authority from his Sarge to whatever authoritative figure he could scrounge up to take care of them, so in all likelihood they wouldn't see each other again before the Marines loaded back into the truck for home. He sighed. This was one of those inevitable 'ta-ta for now' moments, and he couldn't afford to waste it. "Actually, Ramirez, could you hold up just one sec?"

"I don't see why not, Lance Corporal," was his reply. So Ramirez held his position. Larsen and Faust then got out of the chairs they were sitting in as the Dragons drew closer and eventually stopped by their position.

"What's up, Larsen?" Cynder inquired.

"Listen, ah... We won't be sticking around much longer once you're done in there. Sarge wants to strike out for home by noon, and I figure you'll be too busy getting settled in with your new unit to talk anyway, so we'll be brief," the Lance Corporal began.

"The Marine Corps doesn't have much experience with diplomacy. While we look well-trained, duty-bound and battle-hardened, we're pretty much the same bunch of misfits you'll find in any other branch of the Army," Private First Class Faust explained. "We're not the best guys to serve with, and neither is the Airborne."

"What Faust is tryin' to say is... We're not perfect. No ordinary, groundpounding soldier is. You saw that back at the Hay-Adams when Nichols turned on 'Here Comes the Bride'."

Flame rolled his eyes. "And at the White House, and at the Lincoln Memorial... Spare us the details, we get it!"

"That's not the point, Corporal. We didn't know _what_ to do with you after the government entrusted us with your safety. Three days later, here we are; if anything, we probably know more about you than the CIA or DARPA—maybe even a little bit too much.

"But in the end, those're the basics of diplomacy anyway; you get to know a little something about us, and we get to know a little something about you. It's really pretty simple, but we were primarily trained to take the fight to the enemy—whatever it might be—and then keep the peace until a more capable body can." Larsen continued. "Whether we like it or not, Huggins is that 'more capable body'; he's of much higher rank than the Sarge, so I imagine he's probably the best guy to trust right now," Larsen continued.

Faust sighed. "The Lance Corporal's right. We don't need to protect you anymore... Though it looks like you'd be capable of defending yourselves anyway, what with all the teeth... and claws... and crazy elemental shit..."

"That's what Dragons are for!" Vertas joked.

Larsen chuckled. "Look, myth or not... We've done our part, and we've done it well."

"Thanks for keeping us company, Marines. I'm assuming this is goodbye?" Spyro asked.

The two Marines nodded. "Yeah, for now, at least."

Logan wasn't too attached to the Visitors—_I'm not the one who shot the wolf, _he thought—so he just stood by and listened to the short conversation. He watched as Larsen patted Spyro on the back and ushered him and his friends into the building; it was the farewell gesture he'd used with them since their first full day alongside each other. It was also the relief of a burden they'd held onto for the entire three days that had passed since these 'scalies' had stumbled into their lives. He didn't know what would be in store for them in the future; none of them did. All the Marines knew was that they were moving up in the world from lowly infantrymen to operators in the world's latest special operations unit—all to protect their identity. _All this because of three Dragons and a talking wolf... Christ. _

After Faust closed the door behind the Visitors, the rest of the Marines took the time to pack up and leave. However, they weren't done with the memory of their alien friends just yet. "So... How do you think they'll react when they find out the Airborne's a paratrooper unit?" Private Sigmund snarked.

Private First Class Patterson didn't take long to answer the assistant gunner's question. "C'mon, when Pope Field sees 100,000 practice jumps a year, that reaction'll come fast... and when about three of them have wings, it won't be pretty."

"Oh yeah? How much you wanna bet, Mr. Know-It-All?" Faust challenged. A burst of laughter ensued.

__"Enough to make you go bankrupt, ponyboy!" It was a good retort by Marine standards, though it revolved around a long-drawn out insult to the SAW gunner.

"Aw, c'mon guys, haven't we buried the hatchet with that insult yet?" Larsen laughed.

"You never said we couldn't dig it back up!"

"Alright, alright, cut the chatter. Let's just get our asses home, oorah?"

"_Yes, Sarge._" Hanke's voice was dripping with disappointment as he clambered back into the rear compartment of the armored truck. About thirty seconds later, the black International 4000 turned off the as-of-yet unknown street (to the author, anyway) and began its three-hour trek east to Camp Lejeune.

This concludes the Marines' role in the story... Its role up to now, anyway.

"Okay, show of claws... Who's gonna miss those Marines?" Flame, Spyro and Cynder rose their claws in perfect unison at the former's inquiry after they entered the building, with Vertas abstaining. "C'mon, Vert, don't tell me it's because one of 'em perforated you with lead!"

"No, it's 'cause I don't have to listen to that Sergeant of theirs anymore. He's worse than Galm, of all people."

Flame growled. "Can't argue with that..."

The sound of fingers snapping resonated throughout the room, drawing the Dragons' attention to Private Ramirez. "Come on, this way." he commanded.

"Wouldn't want to keep a General waiting!" Cynder obliged. As if on cue, they resumed following the Airborne private through the building.

If there was ever a building that seemed to be purely made up of hallways, this would have to be it. At Spyro's count, he had seen at least six different hallways in the two minutes it would take to reach Huggins' office. They each had different decor on the walls, some being paintings and portraits of famous Airborne engagements (Operation Husky (Sicily, 1943), Operation Market Garden (Arnhem, 1944), and Operation Just Cause (Panama, 1989), just to name a few) and past commanders, and some being pictures of Airborne forces on the modern battlefield. It was one of those 'modern Airborne' pictures that caught the Dragons' attention, if only for a brief moment; there appeared to be several American soldiers in full combat gear (as evident by their use of helmets) throwing themselves out of what appeared to be a very large aircraft, with _something—_they couldn't tell what—being pulled out of the strange containers they wore by a yellow line of sorts. Ramirez didn't take notice of it, since they weren't here to take a tour; they had to meet with the General here, but you'd think an ordinary Army groundpounder like what the Marines had made them out to be would find it a little strange.

After a _very _puzzling two minutes, the Dragons finally arrived at General Huggins' office. The door was marked with a golden plaque, which read:

**Major General James **

**Commanding Officer, 82nd Airborne Division**

Flame whistled at the sight of the plaque. "I like this guy already."

"Don't judge a book by its cover, buddy. Knowing people like Tarsil, he's gonna be nice and ruthless," Vertas replied.

Cynder was quick to correct him. "Durandal, the new Fire Guardian, used to be a general and he's actually a pretty nice Dragon. Chances are, this Huggins character is too."

"Wouldn't make fun of his name either," Spyro added. "Generals aren't the kind of people you'd want to rub the wrong way."

"Pfft! Sure. Who would want to tick off a guy named 'Huggins'?" Flame snarked.

Even Purple Dragons become wary of potential threats running off of someone's mouth. "Flame, that's the only wisecrack I'm gonna let you make about his name, alright? Any more and Cynder and I'll have to knock you out. _**Is that clear?**_"

Flame groaned. "Clear as day, Spyro," he grudgingly agreed.

"Good." He turned to the young human private. "Could you do the honors for us, Ramirez? I can't use that twisty doorknob."

"Aye aye, Dragon," he acknowledged. _Jeez! Why is it that I gotta do everything around here today? _he thought. _First I lead those jarheads to this place, and now their scaly friends want me to open a freakin' door for 'em! _Regardless, he had to open that door; orders were orders. So he walked up to the door and _politely_ knocked on the door.

"Come in!" a relatively stern voice commanded from within the door. Not literally from within, but you get the idea. Ramirez calmly swung the door open and allowed the Dragons inside.

The man sitting at the desk before them completely defied all expectations as to looks. He wore standard Army fatigues and was fairly well built. To a human, he would look to be in his fifties, possibly younger if his hair weren't already graying. His ears stuck out, but unlike the President of the United States, they weren't his defining characteristic. In fact, the one thing you'd probably use to pick him out in a crowd would be those fatigues and a red beret; he looks much like you'd expect any white-skinned man in his fifties to look like.

**Major General James Huggins (Himself)**

The human General was looking at a file when the Visitors arrived. Three of them knew exactly what it was; it was the very file the CIA and DARPA had collaborated on to produce. It had information on everything from their known personality traits right down to their abilities and elements, except for Vertas, who had medical tests done on him at the hospital, so the vast majority of information in his file dealt with such things as height, weight and blood type.

"So, you must be the Visitors I've read so much about. Come in and take a seat... Well, pretty much anywhere except for the furniture. I couldn't get enough chairs in here to seat you all," the General greeted them. The Dragons obliged and lay on the carpeted floor beneath their claws, while Vertas took one of the few seats available in the office as the door to the office closed behind them. "As you might have guessed, my name is Major General James Huggins, but if your file is any indication," he continued, tapping the CIA/DARPA file on his desk as he did so, "you might prefer to call me James. I am the commanding officer of the 82nd Airborne Division, one of the finest combat units I have ever had the pleasure of leading. You, on the other hand, are four of the strangest creatures I've ever laid eyes on."

"Well, that's putting it mildly, isn't it?" Spyro joked, much to Cynder's chagrin. She'd used that line herself two years ago after meeting an injured Cheetah clan warrior by the name of Meadow, referring to the rather racist (if he can even be safely referred to as such) Chief Prowlus.

James stood up from his chair. "Ah, you must be Spyro, no doubt. I don't mean to offend a supposed 'religious icon', but I thought dragons were the stuff of legend until the President told me about you. Word through the grapevine says you're quite talented, but I don't want this entire town to burn to the ground because some idiot general let a dragon loose on base premises. It'd probably wipe out the whole damn division along with everyone else the Army stations here."

"You must be mistaken, General," Cynder pointed out. "Spyro would never do something like that!"

"Of course... Cynder, isn't it? The instant I heard your kind was actually friendly, I didn't believe a word of it. The dragons of legend have always been painted as evil and greedy for gold and other such gems; hell, they even snatched up the daughters of royalty and killed almost everyone who stood in their way. If a race somewhere else in the universe was somehow able to tame you beasts, then there's always the possibility that they would use them as intelligent weapons of war," the Major General replied. "I'm still on the fence when it comes to you being trustworthy enough _not _to incinerate this base, but if the government demands that I at least try to keep you folks on a leash, then that's what I'm going to try to do."

"They're not just limited to fire, sir," Vertas explained. "Cynder doesn't even have the capability to use it. I believe she's a Wind Dragon by birth."

"With the capability to poison anything that moves," the black Dragoness added.

"Yeah, but that looks like a mutation of your windpipe, if anything."

James thought about this for a second. "Hmmm. So that's what the suits at the CIA meant by 'not your average dragons.'"

"Well, maybe you should have read a little bit further into the file, sir. There's more to us than what comes out of our mouths when we get pissed." Flame snarked.

"I'm well aware of that, Flame. A little self-control over that mouth of yours would be appreciated right now."

Flame could only shrink back to the floor, defeated once again. Spyro and Cynder looked at each other as if they'd found a new ally.

"As I was going to say... As long as you can tell friend from foe, you're perfectly welcome when it comes to staying here. That means you might want to put a cork on whatever force of nature's bottled up in your neck at the moment; I won't tolerate the reckless use of elements while you're here, alright? Just laying down some ground rules."

"Don't worry sir, we can restrain ourselves pretty well." Spyro affirmed.

"Good, glad to see we can agree on something. As to your accomodations," James continued, returning to his desk, "I've already lined up a unit you can stay with until further notice."

"Further notice?" Cynder asked, raising a brow.

"Look... As far as I'm aware, you're only going to be here to prepare for that China mission. I don't know anything you might not already know about it, but if being sent to the Airborne is any indication, you're going to find out at least one thing it entails pretty soon."

"Okay... You were going to say about our accomodations?" Spyro asked.

"Right. I want you to report to the barracks of the 325th Airborne Infantry Regiment, Second Battalion, not too far from here. I can have Private Ramirez lead you there. Upon arrival, you will report to a Captain Ruwe; he'll be your superior officer for most of your projected stay here at Fort Bragg. That means you do what he tells you to do. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, General." Flame stated.

"Good. You're dismissed." Cynder stood up first and rapped on the door with her tail, letting whoever was behind it know they were done inside. That very same door quickly opened, allowing the Dragons to leave without worry. As Vertas went to leave, Huggins raised a hand. "Private Vertas, could you wait here for just a second?" he asked.

"Sure. What is it, General?" the wolf inquired.

"Could you keep an eye on your Dragon friends for me?"

"Why would you want me to do that? They'll be fine on their own!"

"I figure if you won't be going through the same training regimen the government wants the Dragons to, you might be able to make sure they don't get into too much trouble. That's the way I see it."

Vertas took a deep breath and sighed. "I'll do my best, General." He then closed the door behind him and ran off after the Dragons, shouting "Hey, wait for me!"

Huggins chuckled to himself for a brief moment. "That wolf's a character, no doubt about that. He'll be right at home here." The one lingering thought on his mind as he returned to his paperwork was _God, those Dragons aren't going to be happy when they see what's in store for them._

***sound effect: night vision goggles switching on***

**End of Part One**

**Footnotes**

**[1] **_Modus operandi_: Latin for 'method of operation'; it's often shortened to M.O in English. It's used by police when discussing a crime, largely consisting of examining the actions of a suspect or suspects to execute said crime, prevent its detection and/or facilitate an escape. It also helps in identification and apprehension of criminals.

**[2] **The differing opinions of the other military branches: The United States military is often led to believe that one branch—typically the one they're a part of—is better than the other four. A common joke against someone who says otherwise is to say that the individual wanted to join, say, the Air Force, but couldn't get in and instead joined the Navy.

**[3] **Major General: The highest uniformed rank in the uniformed (read: armed) forces during peacetime.

Author's Note: *sigh* I'm back. I'll be honest when I say this; I decided to take a break with writing to work on school stuff, so if there's anything wrong with the latter half of this chapter, please blame it on my rustiness. I hadn't even worked on this chapter since sometime in June, of all times, so I'm convinced it might not be as good as everything else I've written. Nonetheless, please enjoy this newest chapter in the WMD saga, and don't be afraid to check out my other works as well! I'll see you all next time!


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